The Journal Of A Young Escort free porn video

Prologue: 

When I was eighteen I choose to work as an escort, I preferred to call myself an adult companion; but that was not where my companionship for money started.  It started when I was sixteen. 

Before I start some things about me you should know.  I grew up in Savannah, Georgia, and grew up rather privileged with material things and social standing.  Social standing and family pedigree can still be a big deal in a city like Savannah and I had both.  From my mother’s side of the family, I was descended from one of the founding families of Savannah who arrived on the same ship as James Oglethorpe, the founder of the first British colony of Georgia, Savannah.  From my father’s side I was descended from Button Gwinnett, one of the representatives of Georgia to the Continental Congress and signer of the Declaration of Independence, his signature is the first one on the left on the declaration.  I am related distantly to other prominent families of Savannah.

We had some skeletons in our closets from our ancestors for sure, some we could be secretly proud of such as the rebellious ancestor who left Savannah and became a pirate in the Caribbean.  Yes, my ancestors were slave owners as were most of the aristocratic planter families n the South.  They owned both cotton and rice plantations.  We make no apologies for something our ancestors did even something so horrid as slavery nor have any sub-conscience desire to make amends.  Our ancestors being slave owners are certainly no reflection on my family’s current views of racism and racial injustice in our country today.  To put it in laymen's terms, no we are not racists nor do we believe in all that white superiority bullshit!  My grandmother, my mother, I, nor any daughters I may have in the future will ever be allowed to join the Daughters of the American Revolution since my mother’s ancestors sided with the British during the Revolutionary War.  We have other skeletons in our closet and some new ghosts that haunt our family currently.       

I was raised in a Catholic household with a devout but not fanatical, mother, went to Mass every Sunday and Wednesday night, and when I was younger eagerly participated and devoutly believed in the mysteries of the Catholic religion.  I attended an all-girls Catholic school from kindergarten until I graduated high school.  I was very popular and had a lot of friends, was invited to the best parties, was a cheerleader, played varsity sports, and a member of various social and academic clubs.  When I was fourteen my parents set up a trust fund for me so when I turned twenty-one a nice sum of money would be transferred monthly into my bank account.  On my sixteenth birthday, my parents gave me a new current year model car and when I graduated from high school they gave me another new current year model car.  Yes, I was privileged and spoiled by my father but I was no snob or thought I was better than anyone else.  My mother raised me better than that.  With all that privilege with money and social standing the old cliché of money can’t buy happiness sure did apply to my family.  At age sixteen, I was a member of a very dysfunctional family.

The cause of our dysfunction happened when I was fourteen years old and I came home from school and found my brother, who was almost four years older than I was, dead.  I found his body lying on the floor in my father’s work shed in the back yard of our historical house in downtown Savannah.  He had used my father’s pistol to put a bullet in his head.  He did not leave a note and we had no idea why he did it.  It was almost two years later when things became clearer on my brother’s suicide when the news reported that the baseball coach of the private high school my brother attended was arrested.  My brother was a great baseball player who a lot of people said could have gone professional.  Like us, you can put two and two together I am sure.  My father sobbed like a child thinking of the shame and humiliation his son must have felt.  So much shame that he took his own life instead of telling my father or anyone what had happened.        

I don’t remember much of what happened after I found his body and still don’t.  The story I was told was that my sixty-eight-year-old neighbor heard me scream and with a pistol in his only hand, he lost his left arm below the elbow when he served in the Marine Corps in Vietnam, found me sitting next to my brother in the pool of blood, screaming.  Mr. McDaniel’s later told the police that he had not heard such a scream since the Battle of Khe Sahn in Vietnam.  There are times I love the south and being a southern girl and there are times I am ashamed of it.  Having a sixty-eight-year-old, one-armed man arm himself for battle with a pistol, and rush to the aid of a fourteen-year-old girl, not knowing what dangers may lay ahead, is one of those times I was proud to be a southerner.  All I remember was seeing my brother and then waking up in the hospital after the EMT’s pumped me full of valium and finding my grandmother and grandfather hovering over me.  My parents stayed with the police to answer questions and wait until they took my brother’s body away.  That one event in our lives drove a stake into the heart of our family. 

They say parents should never have a favorite child but we know deep down they all do and my brother was my parents’ favorite, even though they never said so I think I was one of those oops, we made a mistake children.  I never begrudged my brother or parents for it because he was my favorite also.  I loved my brother deeply and thought he could do no wrong.  He was handsome, athletic, popular, and everyone he met seemed to just fall prey to his charm.  He loved me as well and he watched over me and made sure no one messed with me and never found me an annoying little sister.  After he died, I not only lost my faith in God, but I cursed Him as well.

It was at my brother’s funeral and during one of the eulogies, one of his friends was speaking, that I got up and went into one of the lady's restrooms at the Cathedral Basilica of St. John the Baptist, our family’s church.  I needed someplace to mourn and break down.  I thought it very selfish of me to mourn in front of my parents who had just lost their beloved son.  I sat down on the toilet in the middle stall and started balling like a baby.  I pulled out of my purse and took out the rosary that my mother gave me when I was twelve and on the day of my first communion.  She had purchased the rosary in Rome that summer and it was blessed by the pope.  I asked God aloud how he could do this, how he could allow this, how he could take my brother away from me.  I then begged God to bring him back.  Knowing he would not, I damned God to hell and broke the string on my rosary and flushed the beads and the cross down the toilet.  I sobbed and sobbed for a while longer, wiped my eyes, walked out of the stall, fixed my hair and makeup, and walked back into the sanctuary with the bearing of a true southern lady my mother and years of cotillions and etiquette classes taught me to be.  We don’t make a spectacle of ourselves in public.  It was acceptable to shed a few tears at a funeral and dab our eyes with a handkerchief but we don’t lose our shit in public as I did in the restroom.  Three days later I had a mental breakdown, went bat shit crazy, and broke almost everything I could in my bedroom before my father stopped me. 

My mother, my father, and I dealt with the tragedy in different ways.  Me it was an eight-month stint in a mental hospital and drinking and drug use and years of therapy.  My father became very despondent towards my mother and buried himself in his job and in making money through investments and real estate ventures where he was very successful.  My mother dealt with the loss of her son and being ignored by my father in a different way.  She started having affairs with younger men.  I think she chooses younger men because it was some perverted surrogate for her son she lost.    

Ever since my brother’s death, my mother treated me like I was a second prize trophy and I often thought she wished it was me that had died and not her Golden Child.  I don’t ever remember my mother kissing me on the cheek as she used to or even give me a simple hug after my brother died.  My father, even though he no longer showed affection toward my mother, seemed to show me more affection and attention.  It was as if he was making up for what I lacked from my mother.  To any outsider looking in, we were still the perfect family but only the three of us knew the truth.    

So my story starts when I was sixteen.  I am an attractive girl, red hair, a great body with awesome boobs and butt, blue eyes, and I stand five feet six inches tall.  My friend Tamara tells me I have a nice wholesome girl-next-door face with the body of a porn star.  I wouldn’t call myself conceited but I was confident and knew I was pretty and had a nice body and the way boys and men looked at me only confirmed what I thought about myself.  That Friday, as I walked home from school, was no exception how men looked at me, especially in my uniform from St. Vincent’s.  Our school uniform was a green and navy blue, red and gold horizontal pinstriped plaid skirt, white button-down shirt, and brown shoes but no heels.  I was wearing a pair of three hundred dollar Jimmy Choo, lace-up, suede ballet flats over my white knee-high socks.  We were not required to wear knee-high socks, just crew socks, but I liked the way the knee highs looked with the uniform.  My long red hair was in a ponytail and it bounced as I walked and my ass swayed back and forth. 

I normally walked to school when the weather was nice and if we happened to get one of our afternoon thunderstorms all I had to do was hop a trolley.  St. Vincent’s is in historical downtown Savannah and only a few blocks from the historic mansion where we lived downtown on E. Harris Street across from Layfette Square.  The house has been in our family since it was built in 1819.  The city of Savannah was spared Sherman’s torch during his March to the Sea.  He offered the city a chance to surrender instead of burning the city.  Since the Confederate soldiers had abandoned their defense of the city and moved on towards Charleston the mayor of Savannah wisely accepted Sherman’s terms and the Union General occupied the city and gave it to Lincoln as a Christmas present in December of 1864.   

I was home early that Friday afternoon because our sailing team practice had been canceled.  Yes, we had a sailing team that practiced off Tybee Island.  I was also on the soccer team and the rifle team.  I was even a cheerleader for the football team at our sister school, the all-boys catholic Benedictine Military School.  Since St. Vincent’s was an all-girl school and our sister school was an all-boys high school, we intermingled a lot.  Starting in the high school grades, we had several combined classes, we had shared junior and senior class proms, a combined homecoming, and various dances throughout the year.  Our varsity cheerleading squad also cheered for the all-boys school football and basketball team.  I was only a cheerleader for the football team due to my other extracurricular activities I was involved in.  Just didn’t have the time. 

But I was not just a jock or a shallow, empty-headed cheerleader.  I took AP classes, constantly made the honor roll, was on the debate team, and the math team.  I was wicked smart.  At sixteen, I was a very well rounded girl on the outside.  On the inside, I was fucked up for sure.

I walked through the wrought iron gate to my yard and debated just going to the back to the guest house where I had lived for the past few months but decided to go into the main house.  Even as screwed up as my family was my mother had a rule that when I came home from school I was to let her know I was home and we ate family dinners together and other rules.  She wanted some type of normalcy in our fucked up lives I guess.  My father was out of state on business.  I put on a fake smile and entered my house and walked toward the kitchen to get a snack.  I noticed on the antique dinette table was a wine glass with a little wine left in it and an empty bottle of beer.  I sighed and placed my backpack on the table.  I knew my mother had company.  She had not expected me home so early.

I considered myself an opportunist and now I saw an opportunity, two of them.  The first was a chance to raid my parent’s medicine cabinet in the bathroom for some prescription pain killers.  I knew my father had some left over from a root canal he had gotten several months ago.  The other opportunity was a chance to see who my mother’s new lover was.  I always had this fear she would choose some boy I knew from Benedictines and word would get out about my mother being such a slut.  I decided on the pain killer first since I would pass the bathroom before I got to my parent’s room.

I loved our historical, three-story, five-bedroom house and so did other people.  It was on the annual spring tour of homes that tourists and even some locals paid fifty bucks a person to get a chance to see the inside of some of the homes in downtown Savannah.  A chance for them to see the inside of a house they would otherwise never be invited to look upon.  The historical homes had their drawbacks, however, the way they were designed back in the early 1800s.  One of those drawbacks was the bathrooms.  While the house had three and a half baths, there was no bathroom attached to the master bedroom and since our home was listed on the National Historic Places, there were very strict regulations when it came to renovations.  The electrical and plumbing could be updated and we had modern appliances in the kitchen, but no additions were allowed to the home.  In other words, my parents could not have a new bathroom added to the master bedroom.  The bathroom I needed to get into was next to the door to my parents’ bedroom.

I walked quietly up the spiral staircase, wincing when I heard the hardwood steps creak, and made it to the top of the stairs.  Once at the top of the stairs, I realized I had not needed to be so quiet.  My mother’s moans and cries of passion and a man’s voice filled my ears.  Assuming I would not be home until much later, she had left the bedroom door open.  I could not hear what the man was saying but I could hear my mother.  Like me, she was rather loud when it came to sex and when I was younger and our family was happy I often had to put in my phone’s earbuds and listen to music to drown out my mother’s sounds when she and my father had sex. Ignoring the noise, I walked into the bedroom and rummaged through the medicine cabinet.  I ignored the pill bottles labeled Zoloft and Ativan and Xanax, I had my prescription for Zoloft and Xanax and Ativan never did anything for me.  I found the pain pills; Vicodin.  I took the entire bottle of eight pills.  My dad would not know and if he did he would just assume my mother took them and not say anything.  My parents had become experts at ignoring each other’s problems.

I could still hear my mother and the man’s voice going at it and decided to sneak a peek.  It was not my intention to get turned on by looking, trust me that is something that would not arouse me, but I was curious to see who it was and if I knew him.  The other reason I wanted to look was that there was a chance they would see me and that excited me, but not in the way you would think.  It would excite me because of the fear of getting caught watching. 

Ever since I could remember, I was an excitement-junkie and risk-taker.  The fear of danger excited me, the fear of horror movies excited me, the thrill of harm excited me, and the thrill of getting caught doing something I should not be doing excited me.  I drove fast, I loved roller coasters and other thrill rides, I swam out in the ocean past the no swimming buoy, climbed trees to the highest limbs possible, and almost anything just to get that feeling of fear that would excite me.  After my brother died, it got worse and I took more risks.  The time that summer I went body surfing off the coast of Tybee Island during a terrible tropical storm that pounded the coast and formed huge dangerous swells in the ocean.  I was given a ride home by the Chatham County Sheriff Department.  My father yelled at me and my mother just shrugged her shoulders and told me she taught me better than that, she taught me to be a lady and not a trashy redneck girl.  I did other risky behavior and had sex in places that there was a risk of getting caught.  One time I gave a bartender a blow job behind the bar at a wedding I and my parents attended.  I was behind the bar, hidden between the drink well and the beer cooler, and sucked his cock until he came in my mouth.  All the while, he served a few drinks to the wedding guests while his co-bartender just watched and laughed as she served drinks and took up her partners slack. 

There are many other examples of how I took risks and got thrills just for the feeling of excitement and that adrenaline rush.  Another time two summers previous when I was fifteen, my dad took me and my two best friends out on his thirty-two-foot Beneteau sailboat he had specially designed. On the second day on the ocean, we were off the coast of Charleston and the rudder line broke so we could not steer the boat.  My father used the radio and called for a towboat.  While we were waiting for the towboat to come to take us in, I saw a small school of mako sharks about thirty feet away.  I took off my shoes and shorts and in my bikini, I jumped into the ocean.  My friends freaked out and screamed for me to get back on the boat while my father calmly got a pole hook and extended it to me.  I just wanted to swim with some sharks since I never did that before.  It was frightening even though both my father and I knew that the likelihood of the makos attacking was slim since sharks are solitary hunters and only swim in schools when they are migrating or mating.  There was always that chance they would have mistaken me for prey, however, and that frightened and excited me.  I did not have a death wish, I just got off on the fear of it.  I never thought of the consequences of my actions.  What if the Chatham County Sherriff Deputies had not stopped me from body surfing during that storm, what if the sharks would have decided to find out if I was an amberjack and taken a bite out of me?    What if that bartender had an STD?  Those things never even crossed my mind during the moment and I only thought of them afterward.   

When I looked into my parents’ bedroom, at first I just leaned my head into the doorway, I saw my mother was on her knees and her head turned away from me on the bed.   There was a young black man behind her holding her wrists so my mother’s arms were extended behind her and her face flat on the bed.  He was fucking her very hard from behind.  The man or boy looked to be about eighteen or nineteen, could have not been older than twenty.  As he was fucking my mother, he kept calling her names like whore, slut, old bitch, rich white whore and asked her several times if she liked his black cock in her tight, rich, white ass.  My mother was moaning out loudly in pleasure and answering his questions with yes, I love it, and other phrases to tell him of her pleasure.  I then moved more into the doorway and stood there and watched a few more moments.  The boy was very nice looking from what I could see of his face, he had very dark skin and a nice body.  I briefly wondered how big his penis was.  I am not a size queen but I was curious how big my mother could take in her ass.   

To say I did not get turned on would have been a lie.  I had no incestuous thoughts of either my mother or father but I have to admit seeing her getting fucked like that and such a surprise to me she was getting fucked anally and enjoyed it did arouse me.  I never would have thought my mother would be into anal sex.  I liked voyeurism.  I liked watching and being watched, although the only times I have watched someone else having sex the time I watched my friend Tamara have sex with her boyfriend without them knowing and the occasional porn online. 

I was glad it was not someone I knew who was her latest boy-toy.  It was very easy for my mother to find young men to have her affairs with.  She was forty-two years old and still a very attractive woman.  She was as tall as I was but thinner and even after giving birth to two children, there was very little change in her body.  Her breasts were smaller than mine and she had long, thick auburn hair I was envious of.  I was the only red-headed person in the family.  Both my father and brother had sandy blonde hair and I caught the recessive red-headed gene from my Scottish ancestors on my mother’s side of the family.     

My mother was extremely discreet in her affairs and no one knew about her indiscretions but me and my father.  He didn’t care and at first, I did but I got used to it and no longer cared what she did as long as she left my friends alone.  She did.  Her boy-toys came from the lower or middle class.  She preferred the lower class.  As far as I knew, this was the first black boy she ever had an affair with.  The last one was some trailer-park-trash kid of nineteen.  Mother met the young men online through various adult hook-up sites and Craigslist before they shut down their personals page due to it being used for sex trafficking and prostitution.  I once searched a few of the sites she used to find her profile.  I found two of them on different sites and both were the same.  An attractive older woman, married, looking for a discreet relationship with a local younger man, must meet in public first at a discreet location.  Posted on her profile were four pictures of her only showed her from the neck down.  Two were in lingerie and the other two in just bra and panties.  Her affairs only lasted a few months and for a while, she would seem to go back to her normal life, as normal as we could be, and then search for another young man. 

I knew how online personals worked.  You get a lot of fakes and catfish so I could imagine the surprise on the guy's face when my mother went to meet the young men and they found out she was for real and how pretty she was.

When the black youth let go of my mother’s wrists and grabbed a handful of her luscious hair and pulled her head back I decided to leave because he told her he was about to cum in her rich white asshole and I did not want to get caught looking.  I walked back downstairs, took a butter knife from one of the kitchen drawers that had a nice thick, heavy handle to it, placed a Vicodin on the counter, and used the handle of the knife to crush it up into a fine powder.  I then took my wallet out of my backpack, pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, rolled it up tight, and snorted the opioid powder.  I licked my finger and ran it over the counter to gather up any leftover residue, and licked my finger clean.  I picked up my backpack, put my wallet back inside along with the pill bottle, and walked out the back door to the guest house.  I did not want to hang around the house with my mother enjoying her new affair so I decided to drive down to River Street to get a coffee at Vic’s Coffee Bar.  I noticed that the black boy had pulled his car in the back so it could not be seen from the street.  I cursed because it was blocking my car and I could not get out.  I pulled a pen out of my backpack and ripped a sheet of paper out of my binder and scribbled a note and placed it on the boys’ car windshield, using the wiper blade to hold it in place.  The note read: Next time you come over please allow me space to pull my car out.  Thank you.”  I signed it, “The daughter of the woman you are ass fucking right now.

I put my backpack over my shoulders and walked onto the street and caught a trolley to River Street.

At Vic’s, I saw there were no tables available, damn tourists, but I noticed a young girl wearing a St Vincent’s uniform sitting with who I assumed was her mother.  I did not recognize the girl and she looked young and I figured she was a freshman.  I knew she was not in the middle or elementary school section of St. Vincent’s because they wore different uniforms.  I decided to introduce myself.  By now the Vicodin had kicked in and I was feeling pretty good.  As I walked to the table, I got a better look at the girl and the woman.

The girl was very cute with dirty blonde hair.  She was very petite and had braces.  The woman looked like an older version of the girl but age had taken a toll on her face and I could see the laugh lines and crow’s feet she tried to hide with too much makeup.  She came from money based on the dress she wore and her shoes.

“Hello, mind if I join y’all?”  I asked when I got to the table. 

“Oh my God!”  The girl exclaimed.  “You’re Gwen!”

“Brittany, do you know this girl?”  Her mother asked as I sat down.  Not waiting to be invited.

“Mother!  Everyone at school knows Gwen.” 

“I certainly hope that is not the case,” I said with a charming smile.  “That would ruin my reputation as a nice person.”

Brittany giggled, getting my joke.  Her mother laughed a little too loudly that I know it’s forced.  She did not get the joke.

“I’m Brittany and this is my mother, Justine Barlowe.” 

“Of the Nashville Barlowe's,” the mother added.

The Barlowe's maybe a big deal in Nashville but in Savannah, the name did not mean shit.  I turned to Brittany.

“So you are a freshman?”

“Yes, we just moved to Savannah from Nashville this summer.  My husband’s job brought us here.”  The girl’s mother answered for her and Brittany blushed.  She was just too adorable.  “So your name is Gwen?  Gwen what if I may ask?”

“Mother!  This is Gwen Broughton of the Savannah Broughtons.  The family that Broughton Street is named after.”

The mother finely stuck out her hand and I shook it, “Oh well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, young lady.”

“Same.”  I summed her up within five minutes. 

She was a social climber.  The family name of Barlowe was a big deal and most likely an old Southern aristocratic family of the social elite of Nashville.  Well, Savannah was not Nashville.  As much as she would try, if she and her husband joined the Savannah Yacht Club or the Savannah Golf club, the oldest golf club in the country, they would always be denied the social standing she so craved.  It was simple, The Barlowes were not from Savannah.  The Southern aristocratic families of Savannah prided themselves on having no equals; maybe the old families of Charleston but we would never admit Charlestonians were our equals. 

It was not a matter of money that allowed access to that unique social class.  After the Civil War, the majority of the once-wealthy planter class of the south found themselves with the bank accounts of door-to-door salesmen.  Wealth did not grant you an invitation for the Savannah Christmas Cotillion, the nation’s oldest still active cotillion; where eighteen-year-old debutants from some of the South’s oldest families were introduced into that elite society.  Wealth did not get you past the wrought-iron gates of the Oglethorpe Social Club.  While it helped, it was more a matter of bloodline.  I grew up with girls who would rather date a raccoon than a boy whose family was not their social equal.  The famous Mrs. Justine Barlowe of the Nashville Barlowes may be invited to parties, socialize with the elite families of Savannah, or pay twenty dollars for a Cobb Salad at the Gryphon Tea Room, but she would never belong.

The waiter came to take my order and I ordered an iced dirty chai.  I did my best to talk to Brittany about how she was liking a new school, her hobbies, and just general casual chit chat; but her mother kept interrupting us and kept asking me who her daughter should be friends with, what social clubs should she join at school, and other ways to advance her daughter’s social standing; which meant how she could advance her own social standing through the use of her daughter.  Mrs. Barlowe was giving me a headache and I soon felt the need to take another Vicodin. 

“Is it true that General Sherman used your family’s house as his headquarters while the Yankees occupied Savannah?”  Mrs. Barlowe asked, interrupting a conversation I was having with her daughter.

“No, ma’am, that was the Green–Meldrim House on West Macon Street.  Our home was occupied by General John Hatch.”

“That’s just fascinating.”

“Yes, ma’am.”  I found nothing fascinating about it. 

I found nothing fascinating about how Sherman’s men burned and looted and raped half of Georgia on their way from Atlanta to Savannah.  Any other war in the 20th or 21st century Sherman and his generals would be sitting in a cell in The Hague awaiting trial for war crimes.  Families in Savannah, as well as other parts of Georgia, had hidden their valuables by burying them in the yard, in the floorboards of their homes, and in other secret hiding places.  However, the Union soldiers were like hogs rooting out truffles and always found them.  They did the same to my ancestors’ valuables. 

General Hatch looted family heirlooms, fine jewelry, and other items from our home.  The worse however was when he made off with most of the sterling silver, service for eight flatware set that had been given to my father’s ancestor by the Revolutionary War General Nathaniel Greene for his heroics at the Second Battle of Savannah.  The silver flatware was made by a Boston silversmith by the name of Paul Revere.  My father still has four sugar spoons, three dessert forks, and a single butter knife left out of the set. 

I was relieved when Mrs. Barlowe told me they had to leave and the waiter brought their check.  I took the check and told them it was my treat.  Mrs. Barlowe thanked me and I was irritated she did not try and stop me.  I would have paid anyway but she could have at least faked an attempt to not let me pay.  Apparently, the Barlowes of Nashville were not taught proper social behavior.  I stood when both mother and daughter stood to leave.

I surprised Brittany when I hugged her, “It was such a pleasure to meet you.  You are such a delightful girl,” I told her honestly.

I then shook Mrs. Barlowes’s hand, “Gwen, it was so nice of you to join us.  You are such a charming young lady.  I do hope you and Brittany can be friends.  Maybe you could invite her to some of the proper parties you go to.”  She emphasized the word proper.  I noticed Brittany was fidgeting and blushing in embarrassment by her mother.

“Mom!  Gwen is a senior.  She does not hang out with freshmen.  God!”

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Barlowe,” I lied.  I turned to Brittany and smiled, “Yes, I will have to get her number when I see her at school.  I would be honored to have her join me at some parties.”

I sat back down as they walked away and heard the mother tell the daughter I was the type of girl she needed as a friend.  I laughed at that in my head.  I was the last type of person Brittany needed as a friend.  I made a mental note to make sure anytime I saw the young girl at school to say hello.  She was sweet.  I would not invite her to any parties, however.  First, I did not attend proper parties and Brittany was just so adorably cute and would develop into a very beautiful young lady and there was no way I would subject her to the older boys I partied with.  She was naive and too willing to please and just the type of girl the older boys would take advantage of.  Unlike me, Brittany had no idea how cruel the world truly was and I was not going to be the one to show her.  She would have to find that out on her own.

I would befriend the girl.  She could be my project for the year.  I was always looking for some type of project where I could be nice and kind.  I was always looking for a way to make amends for my sins and for damning God to hell.  I was a good catholic but a very poor practicing catholic.  I still believed in the superstitious mysteries of the Church but I did not practice them.  I still went to Mass almost every Sunday, but I had not been to confession since my brother died.  While I believed in the practice of communion, I no longer took part in the Holy Eucharist.  How could I partake of the body and blood of Jesus Christ when I had so many sins I was never absolved of?  Catholics don’t have a monopoly on guilt but we sure as hell try to. 

I would befriend Brittany and become her mentor.  Take her to lunch on occasion and maybe let her come along with me and my best friends for our weekly dinner at the Crab Shack on Tybee where they pull fresh blue crabs right out of the inlets.  I would make friends with her but never tell her who she could be friends with or choose her friends as her mother tried to do. 

I took another Vicodin, finished my coffee, and flirted with the cute waiter, and placed a twenty and ten dollar bill on the table on top of the checks that left the waiter a sixty percent tip.  The waiter kept looking at me and I smiled at him.  He was cute and we had been flirting even if it was innocent.  He was Hispanic and had a slight accent and looked to be in his mid-twenties.  The second pill had kicked in and I thought about seeing my mother getting fucked and damn it if I was not aroused.  Fuck it, I thought.  I picked up my money and the two checks and put them in my blouse's breast pocket.  I then took a pen out of my backpack and wrote a note on a napkin, If you want the money for the checks meet me in the alley outback.  I didn’t care if he had a wedding ring on.

I smiled at the waiter again and winked at him and left Vic’s through the front door and made my way to the alley.  The alley behind the coffee bar was separated from the other establishments along River Street by a tall, green, wooden privacy fence.  There was a large gate that swung inward to allow the waste disposal trucks to enter and pick up the trash in the large trash dumpster behind the gate.  Once inside the gate, I saw that no one could see into the alley from the street level but when I looked up I could see the Hyatt Regency Hotel, the Old Cotton Exchange Building, and the Bohemian Hotel.  Anyone looking down on the river or River Street from their rooms from either hotel would be able to see me from a distance.  I smiled as I waited next to the brown dumpster to find out if the waiter would show or not.  I wrinkled my nose at the smell of decaying trash, coffee grinds, and spoiled food coming from the dumpster.    I waited ten minutes and I heard the alleyway door of Vic’s open and close and I dropped my backpack and stepped out from behind the dumpster.  The waiter, his name tag read Rodolfo, grinned at me and I smiled back.

He held up the napkin, “I took a break but I do need the money for the bill.  Any skip outs come out of our pockets.”

“I have every intention of paying, but you need to come and get it.”  I stepped back behind the dumpster, unbuttoning the buttons of my white blouse as I moved.

I pressed my back against the red brick wall and Rodolfo stepped in front of me as I opened my blouse.  He grinned again.

“You sure?  We might get caught.”

“That the exciting part don’t you think.”  I reached under my plaid skirt and pulled my panties down, raising one leg at a time to take them off.

“How old are you?”  The waiter asked as his eyes follow the movements of my hands.  He knew by my school uniform I was in high school.  Everyone in Savannah knew the uniforms of St. Vincent’s.

“Do you really care?”  I balled my panties up in my right hand.

“I’m married.”

I smiled, “Do I really care?”

“I don’t have a condom.  Do you?”

“I’m on birth control.”  My mother had taken me to my OBGYN and signed off on me getting an IUD implant a few days after my sixteenth birthday.  She never asked if I was sexually active or not.  I was, but it still hurt my feeling she thought so less of me.

Rodolfo looked at my breasts, I don’t blame him.  I had awesome boobs and guys always looked at my breasts.  “Lift your bra and suck my dick to get it hard.”  The waiter stepped to me as he unzipped his pants and pulled out a semi-erect penis. 

I lifted my bra above my breasts and got on my knees, winced a little as my knees touched the old cobblestones that paved River Street, placed my hands on his butt, and took his cock into my mouth.  Rodolfo moaned in pleasure and put a hand in the back of my head and his other started to fondle my breasts and nipples.  His penis grew to a full erection in my mouth.

“Fuck, girl, you sure know how to suck a cock,” the waiter said after a few moments of me giving him a blow job. 

He then pulled my head back and his penis popped out of my mouth and placed his hands on my shoulders to help me get off my knees.  The waiter pushed me against the brick wall, unbuttoned his pants, and pulled his pants and underwear down.  He grabbed me under my upper thighs just below my butt and lifted my legs off the ground.  I put my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist.  Rodolfo kissed me hard and I kissed him back.  His mouth tasted of stale cigarettes. 

“Oh, fuck!”  I cried out as he entered me in one hard thrust and he drove my back and butt against the brick wall.  It hurt a little because I was not very wet but the pain soon ended and was replaced by pleasure as he fucked me and my pussy got wetter.

He was fucking me hard and my back was beginning to hurt as it was knocked against the hard brick of the wall so I leaned forward, placed my head over his shoulder, and Rodolfo bounced me up and down on his cock.  The excitement of being fucked outside in public by a man I had just met and the thought that guests of the Hyatt and Bohemian could look out their windows and see in the distance some girl getting fucked in an alley next to a smelly, disgusting trash dumpster excited me.  The fear that any other employee of Vic’s could walk out the back door and see us, or that someone in a hotel room could be using his or her phone to record a video that would later be posted online excited me.  It was too far of a distance from the hotels above River Street to recognize any faces but there was that fear anyway.  There was also the fear and excitement of my cries and moans of pleasure could be heard by people walking up and down the steep, uneven, old stone steps leading down to the Savannah River.   

“Oh, God…ohhh, fuck…don’t stop…don’t stop…fuck, I’m going to cum!”  I cried out.  It did not take me too long of being bounced up and down on the waiter’s cock that I cried out my orgasm.  It was not the best I ever had and did not last long, but hey it was an orgasm and it felt good.  After my orgasm ended, Rodolfo stopped bouncing me and his penis was deep into my pussy as I laid my head on his shoulders.  He was breathing hard and sweating from exertion.  It was the last days of August and still very hot and humid in Savannah.  The waiter stood me back on my feet.

“Turn around.  I want to fuck you from behind.”

I turned around and placed one hand against the brick and lifted my skirt with the other.  I bent over a little to give him better access to my pussy.  I felt his hands grab my butt cheeks.

“Damn, you have a great ass,” Rodolfo told me and thrust hard into me again as he pulled my hips to him.  I cried out again but this time it was in pleasure and not pain.  My pussy was very wet with its natural lubricant. 

I felt his hand grab my ponytail and he wrapped it around his fist and pulled hard and my head jerked back.  Again I cried out and again it was in pleasure.  Yes, it hurt but it was the kind of pain I enjoyed when it came to sex.  My mother was not the only female in the family who enjoyed rough sex at times it seemed.  I could hear a mixture of my cries and moans of pleasure, Rodolfo’s masculine grunts of pleasure and excretion, his pelvis slapping against my ass, and him telling me I had a great tight pussy as he fucked me hard.  

My head suddenly turned to the right as I heard the door to the back of Vic’s open and I saw a boy of maybe sixteen or seventeen carrying a large plastic bag of trash.  The way he was dressed I could tell he was not a waiter but maybe a busboy or dishwasher.  Rodolfo looked over and saw him as well and I gave a loud cry as he drove his cock deep into my pussy and held it there; he was still pulling my hair.

The busboy laughed, “Better hurry, man.  Nicole is asking where you are.  Your break’s been over for a bit.”

“Tell her I am on the phone with my wife and be back in a moment.  I am almost done fucking this slut.”

The busboy threw the trash bag into the dumpster and shook his head, “God damned Cuban motherfucker, always so lucky.”  The boy was chuckling and shaking his head as he walked back into the coffee bar.

Rodolfo started fucking me again and about two minutes later told me he was about to cum and he pulled out of me.

“Turn around and get back on your knees.”  I knew what he wanted me to do.  “Hurry up, bitch, I’m going to cum.” 

I got back on my knees quickly and took the tip of his cock and about an inch of his shaft into my mouth while Rodolfo jerked his cock.  I sucked the soft, sensitive head like a lollypop as I ran my tongue over it as he jerked his cock harder and faster, one time hitting my chin with his hand.  I then heard the Cuban man groan and grunt and felt his cum spray into my mouth and I made gulping sounds as I swallowed it.  I like swallowing cum.  Hell, I like a man’s sex fluid in general.  I liked how it tasted and smelled and the texture of the warm sticky substance.  I also liked the feeling of a man’s penis exploding in my mouth and how it hit the back and top of my throat.  It felt well, neat.

After he was finished, Rodolfo pulled his pants up and buttoned them, and zipped up his zipper as I stood up and put my panties back on, and pulled my bra back down over my breasts.

“You could have cum inside my pussy you know,” I told him as I wiped my spittle off the corners of my mouth. 

“I didn’t want to take the chance you were lying about birth control.”  The waiter grinned, “Plus it was great seeing you swallow my cum.” 

I shrugged and buttoned my blouse, “Oh, your money for the bill.”  I handed him the checks and the cash.

“Thanks.  I didn’t even get your name?”

I smiled wickedly, “Justine.”

“Well, Justine, maybe I could get your number and we can hook up again sometime.”

I smiled a charming smile, “Sure.”  I pulled a pen from his top pocket on his shirt, took his hand, and wrote down the Savannah area code and then seven made up random numbers on his palm.  “Call me, sometime.”  I walked out of the alley and made my way to the trolley stop to go home.  My mother would be done with her lover by now.  While waiting for the trolley I fixed my makeup and adjusted my ponytail back to normal.

I walked into the front door of the main house and into the kitchen where I found my mother sitting at the dinette table reading a book.  She looked like the perfect, elegant southern lady.  She was wearing a pretty, conservative, floral print dress, white heels, not a hair on her head out of place, and her makeup looked as if it had been applied by a professional makeup artist.  It was hard to believe just a couple of hours ago she was getting her ass fucked by a young man and no telling what they did after that.  She looked very lovely and for a moment I envied her, but only for a moment.  It did not take long for me to remember she almost as fucked up as I was.  I tossed my backpack on the table as my mother looked up at me.

“Gwendolyn, that’s a hundred and fifty-year-old antique table!”  She was the only person I knew that called me by my full first name.

“Oops, sorry.”  She knew I didn’t mean it.  I walked to the kitchen counter and hopped up on it and sat on the kitchen counter swinging my legs. 

“Honestly, one would think you were raised by trailer trash.  I don’t know why I wasted all my money on those cotillions and etiquette classes when you insist on being so common.”

I grabbed the cookie jar and pulled out a chocolate chip cookie.  I wrinkled my nose because it was store-bought.  We had not had home-baked cookies in the house since my grandmother died two years ago.  Mother had not made any since my brother died.  I took a large bite out of it.

“Don’t you mean daddy’s money, mother?”  I asked with a mouth full of cookie.  I always called my mother, mother.  Never mom or mamma and God forbid if she ever heard me call her mommy.  It was something she insisted of me long ago.

“I don’t know where I went wrong with you.  You were such a delightful child.  So well behaved and obedient and such a perfect little lady, until you weren’t.”

This was a perverted game we played.  We did our best to get under each other’s skin without going too far as to cause one of our infamous knockdown, drag-out fights.  We knew the limits and those limits were even stricter when my dad was not around to referee us.   

“Oh, I don’t know.  Maybe after eight months in the looney bin and being around all those low-class nut jobs just rubbed off on me.”  I smiled at her and it was not a humorous smile.  “You should have been there, mother.  We could have been roomies and besties.  Would have been better than the one I had, that’s for sure. Did I ever tell you about her?  How she liked fire?  How she smuggled in a Bic lighter in her coochie?  How she used that lighter on me at night?”

“Stop it, young lady.  I don’t need to hear your exaggerations!”  My mother took a deep breath.  She did not like to hear things that I went through for those eight months.  “You put yourself in that place with your behavior.  Your father paid a pretty penny to get you in the best facility in the city.  They took good care of you in there.”  

I conceded the point.  She would never believe some of the horror stories that went on in a mental facility regardless of how much it cost.  Even the wealthy can be crazy and mean and cruel.

“Okay then, maybe it’s my friends who teach me bad manners and try to undo all the good you taught me.  I do hang out around with that,” I looked around as if I am looking to see if anyone is overhearing us and lower my voice to a whisper, “that black girl.”

“Don’t you dare blame your friends!  Tamara is one of the sweetest girls I know and you are lucky to have her as a friend and Amber is the most charming young lady I have ever met.  You could do well to emulate those two.”  Tamara and Amber had been my two closest friends for years. 

“Why mother, you are making such improvements.  Maybe next week you will let Tamara use the front door instead of the servant’s entrance.”  I gave her my infamous wicked grin, “And Amber is the biggest whore in Savannah if not all of Georgia.”

“I should slap your trashy mouth for that!”  Her anger was rising.  “I have no idea why those two would ever be your friend or put up with your nonsense.”

“Cause they love me,” I smiled.  “So how was your day, mother?” I knew it was time to back off now.  I was not in the mood to start a huge fight and the Vicodin was wearing off and I was coming down off my high and getting cranky.  If I continued, I would say something that would implode into a huge fight.

“It was fine, thank you for asking,” mother was glad I changed the subject.  She also knew things were about to go too far.  “How was school today?”

“Just peachy.” 

“Your father called and he won’t be home until Wednesday instead of Monday.  Something about a problem at work.”  I could have sworn I sensed a little sadness in her voice.  Nah, who was I kidding?  My father extending his work trip a couple of more days would give her more time wither lover.

Besides his side adventures in real estate and being a minor entrepreneur, my father’s real job was as an aeronautical engineer for the Department of the Army and he worked on base at Fort Stewart.  He worked on some highly classified projects that he could not even share with us.  He was currently in Nevada at Area 51.  By the way, he told me there were no aliens or alien technology at Area 51, but of course, he would have to say that if there was. 

I was sad my father would not be home Monday.  I jumped off the counter and grabbed my backpack off the table.  “Well, I got homework to do.”

My Mother opened her book, “I won’t be home for dinner tonight so you will be on your own.  My book club meeting has been changed for tonight,” she said while staring at the pages of the book.

I knew what book club meant.  It meant that she would go to some cheap motel off I-95, a good distance from Savannah so she would not be seen by someone she knew, and meet her new lover there.  She knew that I knew what she meant as well.  Between the three of us; my mother, my father, and myself; we all knew what she did.  We just never said anything about it.  I often wondered if my father had affairs or maybe used an escort service when on his business trips.  Deep down I kind of hoped he did. 

“That’s fine.  I will order take out or something.  Toodles and have fun at book club.”  I walked out of the kitchen and out the back door to the guest house.

I don’t know if her lover told her about the note I left on his car and I never would.  Mother knew I and my father knew about her affairs but she never flaunted them, was always discreet, and would ignore any hint that we knew. 

I unpacked my backpack and placed my school books on my table.  I thought about taking another Vicodin but decided against it.  I only had six more pills left and I wanted them to last the weekend.  I could get more Monday at school from Denise.  Denise was the best soccer player on our team, if not the best in the city maybe even the state.  She was rated by ESPN as the eighth-best striker in the country and had signed her letter of intent for the University of Georgia for next year.  She was also from a poor family and only attended St. Vincent’s because she was offered a scholarship to play soccer for us.  This past summer she suffered an ACL injury while water skiing and had surgery and with that post-op recovery came her access to prescription pain pills.  She needed money so she often sold me some.  Monday, I would also make an appointment with my OBGYN.  He was always good for a prescription as long as I let him examine me with no gloves on.  Plus, I did want him to check for any STDs.  I had let Rodolfo cum in my mouth.  See, I told you, I never think about the consequences at the time of my actions.  He was married so I doubted he had any, but better safe than sorry.   

I did my homework, watched a little television, and went to bed.  While in bed I thought about seeing mother getting fucked and about my indiscretion with the waiter and got aroused.  I got my small clit stimulator vibrator out of my nightstand drawer and got myself off.  I thought about being fucked by Rodolfo and then that turned into the busboy joining us and that turned into people using their phones to video us as they watched from their hotel rooms in the Hyatt and Bohemian.  I orgasmed using the vibrator on my clit and two fingers in my pussy, licked my fingers and the tip of the small vibrator clean, and went to sleep.

Money may not have been able to buy me happiness but a girl with my money, my social standing, my looks, my body, and the willingness to use all four; I could get almost any other damn thing I wanted.