“What the heck am I doing?” The troubled grimace on Lindsay Anastacio's face belied her youthfulness as she gazed at the eclectic, Spanish-style house. She twisted and plucked at her fingers and did her best to suppress any thought of the wicked impurities she was about to inflict upon herself by being here. Lindsay’s moral compass pleaded with her to turn and run away, but she refused to budge, convinced the first step toward a future of independence awaited within those walls.

Everything appeared identical compared to the online photographs she’d studied so diligently over the past several months. The desert backdrop provided spectacular views of orange-banded canyons, towering yellow limestone peaks, sandstone crags, crumbling rocks, and an assortment of colorful wildflowers. Nestled at the end of a cul-de-sac, the house looked normal with its white stucco exterior, red-tiled roof, manicured grounds, spacious front patio, and dense shrubbery.

Yet Lindsay knew it was anything but normal. This house represented all the sinful things she had been taught to avoid while growing up in a conservative, religious family. According to her mother, what happened in establishments like this was dehumanizing and potentially even life-threatening.

Don’t do this. Her inner voice continued to protest. Save yourself.

Run!

But Lindsay ignored it … again.

“Well, I'm here. I’m actually here. Dope. Might as well go through with it, huh?” She spoke to herself while applying a fresh sheen of flamingo pink lip gloss. “There’s no turning back now.”

Need to look my best, right? This is the most important day of my life. Random thoughts also swirled through her mind, much like gray ash and dust did in the desert air thanks to a strong, whipping wind. Mom and Dad would turn all salty, maybe even disown me, if they had any idea of what I’m about to get myself into.

Lindsay wrung her hands out and a deep furrow tangled her brow. I’m gonna do this. She gave her too-short shorts a self-conscious tug and tipped her chin high with false bravado. It's time to be a big girl and move on to the next phase of my life. Remember, fear is for the weak.

Lindsay managed a brave face, flung her backpack over her shoulder, and footslogged across huge marble stepping stones as she approached the entrance. Settle down. It’s just a job interview. She rubbed her arms to combat a sudden chill. You worry too much.

Besides, the eighteen-year-old had nowhere else to go. After paying for an Uber ride to get here, she was broke.

Lindsay fell in love with Las Vegas after a whirlwind sightseeing tour and staying at a downtown hotel there overnight. An oasis of lights, sounds, and uncaged debauchery in the heart of the Mojave Desert, Sin City was more like a theme park than an urban metropolis. It awed as much as it overwhelmed, and that was part of the appeal.

Known for its luxurious rental properties, the clink and ring of slot machines, world-class shows, and a cornucopia of fine dining, Vegas had more than earned its moniker as “The Entertainment Capital of the World.” Activity raged everywhere, and the endless parade of tourists from all walks of life boggled Lindsay's naïve, impressionable mind. And the Las Vegas Strip itself? It was a flamboyant, boisterous, and eccentric adult fantasyland where anything was possible, and reality, with its pitfalls, ceased to exist.

Hmm … this sure ain’t Vegas.

Located 175 miles upstate, Flagstone was known as a rough-and-tumble mining town in the days of the Old West, claiming many lives to gunslinging and brawls. Saloon girls, prospecting, gambling, and lawless streets were commonplace during its heyday in the 1870s. The Flagstone of 2018, however, was a bedroom community whose charm was evident in its people and its shops.

An old gold mine, abandoned long ago, was strewn with twisted debris. The Flagstone Historical Museum featured several artifacts, including one of the original train engines used to haul ore from the mine. Outdoor enthusiasts enjoyed a sanctuary to plants and animals in the Calafell Canyon National Wildlife Refuge, while history buffs could explore the town’s most notable attraction, Crown Hill Cemetery. It served as the final resting place for dozens of shady characters from a violent, bygone era. Many locals insisted those spirits haunted it to this day.

The temperature on this Monday morning was 106 degrees Fahrenheit, typical weather for July, though sweltering heat like this didn’t faze Lindsay. Three weeks ago, she was on stage under the blazing sun at her high school graduation ceremony in the small town of Citronelle in California’s southeastern desert.

She fled those old stomping grounds yesterday morning, as well as her parents, three sisters, and everyone else who mattered, and took a charter bus from Palm Springs to Las Vegas. Both her mom and dad insisted she had no clue what she was doing and was downright crazy to venture out on her own at such an early age.

But Lindsay had a plan. She just didn't tell anyone what it was, including her lifelong best friend, Evie Bancroft.

For as long as she could remember, Lindsay had wanted to ditch Citronelle. Sure, it was home, but nothing ever happened there, and no one ever left. The next closest sign of civilization was thirty miles away. In her mind, the entire region, with its barren wastelands, sand dunes, and dry lakes was insufferable. What aggravated her more than anything was the sense of trapped isolation. Continuing to live in Citronelle was a dead end and offered no opportunity for a successful future. Hmmph, I don’t want to turn into the second coming of my mom.

For years, Lindsay clung to the hope that something better was out there waiting but wasn’t sure what or where it was. And unless she drew the courage to branch out and search on her own, Lindsay realized she’d never find it because it sure as hell wouldn’t come looking for her in Jerkwater USA.

With her two older sisters attending Pepperdine and Cal State Berkeley, respectively, going off to college was out of the question. There was no way her parents could afford the tuition. Besides, Lindsay lacked motivation during her high school years and flat-out didn't care about applying herself or giving the slightest effort. Getting accepted into a top-flight university would be an uphill battle with less-than-favorable GPA and SAT/ACT scores.

Dipping and frying corn dogs for minimum wage at the fairgrounds every summer could no longer be an option either. Ewwwww, gross … corn dogs. Lindsay choked down an uncomfortable swallow. I. Can’t. Even! It was the only job available in town, and further evidence she needed to escape the purgatory Citronelle had always been.

So, in the fall of 2017, an idea popped into her mind and refused to go away. At first, Lindsay found the notion downright repulsive, but soon the perversity of it intrigued her like nothing ever had before.

Why wouldn’t it? Sex was involved.

Lots of it.

And having sex was this girl’s favorite activity.

Lindsay did extensive research on every active brothel in the state of Nevada and what it was like to work at one. She read every news article, blog, and message board available on the Internet related to brothels – whorehouses, to be blunt – and delved into their long, checkered history.

Lindsay created dummy accounts on Twitter and Instagram, followed every “working girl” she could find, and socialized back and forth with those gracious enough to respond. Claiming to be twenty-four with aspirations of joining the world’s oldest profession, she asked countless questions and gathered useful feedback.

Though wrought with controversy and fierce opposition, brothels are legal in Nevada counties where the population does not exceed 400,000 residents. This means brothels are illegal in Clark County, home to Las Vegas, and Washoe County, home to Reno. Carson City, an independent city, outlaws them as well. But for counties with less than 400,000 people, decisions to permit these houses of prostitution are up to local officials.

A small scattering of municipalities in seven of the state’s seventeen counties are the only places in the United States where buying or selling sex is legal – provided it happens inside one of these businesses.

Advocates claim that visiting a brothel is the safest sex anyone could ever have in their lifetime. That is because every aspect of their day-to-day operation is subject to the strict scrutiny and regulations of the local county, as well as the Nevada State Legislature.

Ordinances mandate every sex worker must undergo stringent medical testing on a recurring basis. If a test result comes back positive, they cannot return to work until cleared by a physician. Failure to comply would lead to a jail sentence for the lady, and license cancellation and permanent shutdown of the brothel itself.

After months of social media communication with employees and patrons alike, Lindsay applied online at Happy Ending Ranch in Flagstone. Aesthetically, Flagstone wasn’t much different from Citronelle – a sleepy desert town with century-old buildings, cottages, and neglected homes peppering the streets. The nearest town was seventeen miles away and housed a mere 160 residents. It’s like I never left home. Mountains hugged the horizon and residents enjoyed wild game hunting and trout fishing in the surrounding landscape.

Despite the cruel familiarity, Lindsay chose Flagstone and this specific brothel, anyway, because she hadn’t read one negative review about it. Complaints infested multiple online forums about all the other houses, but customers raved about the girls at Happy Ending Ranch and how mellow the staff was. The owner went above and beyond for his clientele, and judging by the pictures she saw, Lindsay considered him easy on the eyes too. He’s sexy as all hell. Customers also spoke far more glowingly of the ranch's vibe than they did any other in the state.

In short, Happy Ending Ranch struck Lindsay as the ideal spot to get her feet wet in the industry. She’d gain valuable experience as an employee here and could, in theory, work her way up to the larger and more well-known houses where the real money was. I’d give anything if I could work at Chastity’s Ranch one day.

Lindsay's forehead scrunched as she stared at the battered metal sign mounted on the front door.

NOTICE: Cell phones, pagers, personal digital assistants (PDAs), laptops, recording devices, and two-way radios are prohibited on this property and will be confiscated.

She assumed the sign was in place to protect anonymity and safety and such rules were for the general public, not the working girls. Surely, management wouldn’t forbid their employees from using cell phones, would they? But just to be safe, she stashed her wireless device inside her backpack. Ain’t no one touching my phone.

Lindsay reached out a finger, pressed the doorbell, and an incessant chime emanated from somewhere behind the thick, reinforced mahogany.

And as if on cue, the sound set off an avalanche within her. Maybe I have it all wrong. Are Mom and Dad right? Seriously, do I know what I’m doing? Her thoughts themselves were rushed. Am I about to make the biggest mistake of my life? Unease rolled in waves as she wondered what awaited on the other side.

You're insane, but welcome to the rest of your life, girlfriend. This is what you wanted, and now it’s here: time to get fucked for a living. I’m so shook! She gripped the hair at the base of her skull as her pulse staggered. Hey, they can print that on your tombstone. Lindsay Michelle Anastacio, December 4, 1999, to … whenever. She was a prostitute and got fucked for a living – and she liked it. A flicker of a smile passed her lips. A cocksucker du jour.

The young woman blew her cheeks out with a wheezing breath, told herself to stop over-analyzing this, and surveyed the peaceful setting one more time. Her mother was against the idea of prostitution, legal or otherwise. Mrs. Anastacio claimed that brothels were “houses of ill repute” and the women who dared work at them “unholy sinners.” Mom is such a Karen. She enjoyed watching daytime talk shows and insisted sex workers were the lowest form of scum on the planet and would forever rot in Hell.

If she ever found out I’m here, it would be a disaster! The color drained from Lindsay’s face. Mom would spaz out and need years of therapy to recover. She bounced and shuffled on her heels. Dad would have a stroke and call the National Guard. No, no, he'd do one better. He'd contact Seal Team Six and have me extracted.

After what seemed like an eternity, the door had yet to open. Was everyone still sleeping? Lindsay’s research suggested most denizens of these “cathouses” showed up at night under the cloak of darkness. But the place opened ninety minutes ago. Someone had to be awake and lurking about inside, right?

She pressed the buzzer again, shifted from foot to foot, and emitted a screechy, low-pitched whine. C’mon, let’s get this over with. Showing up here wasn’t an easy decision, but at least it had been an informed and well-thought-out one. Lindsay again reminded herself this was what she wanted to do with the next phase of her life. It was her one-way ticket out of Citronelle too. I never wanna see that shithole again.

The rust-stained knob wheeled around, and the door squeaked, groaned, and scraped open, and a much older man greeted her with a smile creasing his lips. “Hi, how’s it going today? Welcome to Happy Ending Ranch.”

Dressed from head to toe in black, the gentleman’s face featured prominent cheekbones, heavy brows, and a defined jawline. He was tall and lean, with a dark, healthy tan, and green eyes that reminded Lindsay of the forest on a calm autumn day.

“Hi. I’m great, thank you. How are you?”

“Good.”

She again tugged on her denim shorts and couldn’t peel her eyes off this handsome silver fox. Lindsay often daydreamed of being with an older, experienced man who would control her in the bedroom. In those fantasies, she was defenseless, a submissive plaything, and at her lover’s mercy.

Lindsay craned her neck, her big blue eyes shining, and nibbled on a finger. That face. I know I've seen your picture before, sir. Who are you? What is your name? She racked her brain for an answer, but soon got derailed by another impulse altogether: dropping to her knees and taking his cock into her mouth. Lindsay yearned to taste this sexy stranger, to swallow his sperm, and show him what a productive, hard-working employee she could be.

She yanked her hand away from her mouth and squirmed in place as a twinge flared between her thighs. Through the thin fabric of her tank top, the twin peaks of her nipples stiffened into view. Lindsay's libido, already the stuff of legend at Citronelle High School, was raging out of control. X-rated thoughts on the bus ride yesterday led to and peaked during an overnight masturbation session at the hotel. After all her careful planning, Lindsay was finally at a brothel.

And she knew what happened at these houses of ill repute.

“May I see your ID, please, if you don’t mind? Need to do an age check.”

“Uhh, sure. Hold on.” Lindsay's imagination crashed back down to Earth as she fumbled through her backpack and presented a California driver's license. My ID, huh? What a buzzkill.

Realization dawned – she recognized this man from the online videos about Happy Ending Ranch and various related pictures too. She couldn’t remember his name offhand but felt certain he was an employee. He’s not the owner. I’d know that face in a heartbeat. Perhaps he was the head of security? The lead bartender?

Will I meet the owner today? Lindsay considered herself lucky that she might work with not one, but two impeccable older men. I'd let both of them smash me at the same time.

“Oh, Lindsay … Lindsay Anastacio! We've been expecting you. I’m Jim Mayer, the house manager.” He moved aside and extended an arm. “Come on in. So nice meeting you.”

“It's nice to meet you, too, Mr. Mayer.” House manager, huh? You must be second on the totem pole. Lindsay offered a polite smile as she slipped by and navigated into the front foyer. It gave the impression of a typical family home on the outside, yet inside it was anything but. Lindsay surveyed the wet bar, wraparound mirrors, and the stripper pole in the background with a rigid posture and wide-eyed countenance.

This den of iniquity – think sports memorabilia, poster prints of rock-and-roll legends and adult film stars, peeling paint and bright neon signage, and padlocked doors leading God-knows-where – was Flagstone’s gateway to glamorous women and salacious good times.

This crib is lit!

The lobby featured two booths and four bistro tables with worn, leather-backed chairs, with the bar itself as the focal point. Hardcore pornography played on two separate flat-panel televisions and a sprawling glass showcase featured exotic toys available for purchase. OhmiGod! Is that a strap-on dildo? Look at the size of it! A jukebox with records, touchscreen games, mismatched glassware, a fake mounted fish, and a pool table in dire, yet technically playable disrepair added charm and character. Open doorways flanked either side of the counter with raggedy curtains draped in front of them. The air reeked of nicotine, booze, and sex. Is this what people mean when they say something is a dive bar? Several placards all throughout indicated that condoms were “mandatory”, yet Lindsay inclined her head and smirked at a specific sign. Get your woody serviced here?

“You took a bus from Palm Springs to Vegas, yes?” Jim ran Lindsay's driver's license through an electronic scanner and handed it back. “Did you have a pleasant trip?” His gaze anchored into her. “Run into any problems?”

Warm and inviting, Jim spoke from the chest, not the head, and conveyed richness, wisdom, and stability. After years of dealing with boys her own age, this was a welcome change of pace for Lindsay. Finally, I’m around people with the same maturity level as me.

“Nah, the trip was Gucci.” Lindsay sensed Mr. Mayer was sizing her up. She had the innocent girl-next-door vibe down pat, standing five-foot-three with blonde hair and deep blue eyes atop a petite, blossoming frame. Back home, Lindsay was the two-time reigning Homecoming Queen, an accomplishment less impressive given her graduating class comprised a meager sixteen students. She took pride in a made-for-sex body but considered herself more cute than hot. An easy, charming temperament made her irresistible; she could cast a love spell on any man.

“My only gripe is, it took too long. Ten hours from Palm Springs to Las Vegas with a gazillion stops and breaks.” Is that a cigarette vending machine in the corner? Lindsay blinked and inhaled all the air she could. What seemed like decades-old wafts of tobacco smoke would take some getting used to. Reminds me of Grandma’s before she went off kicking and screaming to the nursing home. And what was the deal with this loud, obnoxious music? Sounds ancient, like some eighties hair metal or something. “I don't know why they found it necessary to pull over at every single rest stop.” She rolled her eyes. “It was so extra.”

Despite her comments, Lindsay thought the bus ride was a steal and would do it again. I like to complain. Dad says I’m such a whiny brat. Just thirty-five dollars to uproot her life to a whole new world? Can't beat that.

The Uber ride from Vegas had been more efficient and comfortable, and the driver was a riot, but it set Lindsay back $221 and obliterated the rest of her budget.

“Would you like a bottled water? Coke or Pepsi? Powerade? Coffee? All on the house, of course.”

Her eyes still taking inventory, she flashed a perfect row of teeth. “No, Mr. Mayer, but thank you.” Most of the indoor lighting came from strings of Christmas lights. That seemed bush-league on the surface, but Lindsay recalled a prostitute on Twitter who claimed low lighting conditions made it difficult for customers to find physical imperfections in their chosen ladies. She said every brothel is dark and spooky like this. It also helped protect their anonymity. “I appreciate you asking.”

“Please, call me Jim.”

She drew a deep breath that lifted her breasts higher in her tank top. “Kk.” I wonder if this is one of those houses where management has nonstop sex with their employees. At first, Lindsay hoped that wasn’t the case, but now she was here, she welcomed visions of Jim ripping her clothes off, throwing her on top of the bar, and feasting on her like she was Thanksgiving dinner. Give me a test drive! The idea made her feel vulnerable yet also full of anticipation. Devoid of any logic due to the circumstances, Lindsay would let him have his way.

She caught herself staring at his hands. They were strong and masculine, and she imagined them gripping her ass as he fucked her from behind. Hmm, I bet you’re an animal in the bedroom. Her daydreams transitioned to what he was packing between his legs. Can I see? I’d love for you to … throat me.

“Your ID checks out, and we've already verified through our background check that you're eighteen. You don't look eighteen. You look younger, which will be the best thing you have going for you, at least to start.” Lindsay bit her lip and a rosy blush dusted her cheeks as Jim continued to talk. Her mind was still racing, her pulse pounding. “The big boss, Colt, has been on the lookout for some younger talent. Play your cards right, be willing to listen, and you’ll make a considerable amount of money here.”

Glancing down, she twirled a sneaker-clad foot upon the floor. “I hope so.”

“I need to inspect your backpack and make sure you didn’t bring anything on to the property you shouldn't have. A full search is mandatory.”

When Lindsay’s head shot up with arched brows, Jim added in a soft, reassuring voice, “All employees or turnouts – prospective employees, that is – have their belongings searched every time they enter the building. It's a safety thing.” He reached forward and carefully snared her bag without waiting for permission.

Oh, rip. What the fuck? An infusion of adrenaline rocked Lindsay’s body as Jim emptied the backpack’s contents and sifted through what amounted to all her worldly possessions. I have nothing to hide, but seriously? The brazenness of the search insulted her, and she didn't like the prospect of losing all semblance of privacy either.

But that's how these places operate. You knew that coming in, did you not? Lindsay had to face facts: as long as she was here, her liberties would be subject to the whims of management.

The epitome of professionalism, Jim inspected and placed each of her bras and panties into separate piles. Though she stared at him with clenched fists, Lindsay appreciated the respect with which he regarded her things. Calm down, don’t jeopardize your chance at getting hired. It’s a simple search.

Jim did the same for her tops and bottoms, shoes, socks, hair and beauty supplies, purse, laptop, iPad, and paper notebooks, and gave her smartphone a quick glance. Apparently, it wouldn’t be confiscated after all. Thank God. I'd die without my phone.

Jim had no visible reaction to Lindsay's long, silver dildo and the Ben Wa balls she would occasionally insert into her vagina first thing each morning and go about her day as usual. The balls were hollow and weighted with smaller metal balls inside them. These balls moved as Lindsay moved and kept her in a constant state of arousal even as she did the most mundane activities.

She once wore them to school and experienced an orgasm by walking from one class to the next. Oblivious, friends feared she was about to faint (or worse) and called the nurse for help.

Until today, that was the craziest, naughtiest thing she’d ever attempted in her young life. I love getting fucked with every single step I take!

“Your stuff checks out,” Jim said. “All clean.”

What? No full-body pat-down? Lindsay’s lower lip protruded. Disappointing.

“You want me to put everything back, or would you rather do it yourself?”

Without hesitation, Lindsay grabbed the plastic baggie with the Ben Wa balls inside and clutched them like they were her most prized, cherished possession. Uhhhhh. “I’ll do it.” Her face flushed fifty shades of red as she realized how silly she must look for having archaic, old-world sex toys like this and, with trembling hands, began refilling her bag. But I love my Ben Wa balls!

Lindsay angled a subtle glance up at Jim. There’s nothing like a bad boy who pretends to be a gentleman. This man was a bad boy, right? He had to be, considering he was the manager of a brothel. Jim sold sex to random customers and fucked all the prostitutes in their downtime. And hell if that idea didn’t melt Lindsay’s panties right off. I want his dick in me.

Jim meandered behind the counter and picked up the old-school, rotary telephone. “Colt? Yeah, hi. The turnout is here. Yeah, the girl from Palm Springs. Lindsay Anastacio, the eighteen-year-old. Early, yeah. You see her on surveillance?” His eyes again met hers, his gaze so deep, so intensive that her entire body shuddered. “A keeper, isn't she? I think so. Oh, yeah. Mighty fine. Better than I thought too. Want me to send her back to your office, or do you prefer to come out and meet her at the bar instead? Yeah, yeah, okay. I got you, boss. I'll let her know. No problem. Yeah, I contacted the lawyer first thing this morning like you asked. Blake’s secretary said he’ll call you at twelve forty-five sharp. Yeah, yeah, my pleasure.” Jim placed the phone down and again regarded Lindsay. “Colt will see you in his office now.”

“Who is Colt going to see?” A female’s voice called from behind as Lindsay put the last of her belongings away. She whirled around and laid eyes on a hypnotic, celestial blonde who emerged from the curtain on the right side, and a shock of something Lindsay couldn’t describe exploded within her like a nuclear bomb.

Whoa!

At initial glance, this woman possessed it all: an angelic face; thick, healthy hair that flowed down to the midpoint of her back; soft, pink lips; a bronzed, voluptuous figure; and a disposition as bright and warm as the desert sun. A yellow minidress fit her like a second skin, with red trim running down either side of her ridiculous curves. Lindsay struggled to tear her gaze away from those succulent, tanned legs and the spiked high heels supporting them.

Those are stripper heels.

“Oh, you're the turnout! It's awesome to finally meet you in person.” The woman, who appeared no older than twenty-one, shuffled over, brows raised, and extended a manicured hand. “Hi, I'm Pamela. You're Lindsay, am I right?” She pressed a hand to her lips. “I guess I'm gonna look silly if you're not Lindsay, huh?”

They must be six or seven inches high. Pamela’s heels still distracted Lindsay, and for good reason. Those rides are fucking dope! Pamela’s legs were pure muscle, pushing and pulling and shifting as she had moved closer with a beguiling grace, and the heels shone a spotlight on them. It was incomprehensible to Lindsay how anyone could walk around in such dramatic pumps. I’d fall and break my neck in those things.

“No, no, you're right. I'm Lindsay.” She stole another glance of Pamela in her minidress as they shook hands. Do all the girls here look like you? She expected them to be attractive, but not on the scale of international supermodels. How am I going to compete and make any money?

“Oh, look at you. You seem shy. What a doll. Are you nervous? Don't be nervous, sweetie. You look better in person than you did in the pictures you sent to me.” Pamela had a joyous flame dancing in her chocolate brown eyes as she hooked an arm around Lindsay's elbow and motioned toward the hallway to the left. “Want me to take you back to Colt's office?” She rubbed gentle fingertips across  Lindsay’s inner elbow.

“Uhh, sure … I guess?” Lindsay’s heart rate, which had leveled off in the past few moments, soared again. Who is this woman? Her body reacted to Pamela’s intimate touch, the closeness, tingles sweeping across her skin.

I like it. Coming here, Lindsay didn't expect any inhibitions or boundaries. Why would there be? It’s a brothel. She had never been with another girl in bed before, either, although it was something she’d fantasized about trying for years with her best friend back home.

Evie is so sweet and pretty. It had only been thirty-six hours, but Lindsay missed her already. In fact, she missed Evie more than anyone in her own family. We’ve been thick as thieves forever.

Did finding Evie desirable make Lindsay bisexual? Fantasizing about her? Or was she, instead, a modern, millennial woman who wanted to broaden her horizons? Lindsay wasn’t sure and spent substantial time over the last several years pondering that question herself.

Liking girls was nothing new. Her first-ever crush was Jasmine from the movie Aladdin. She was five at the time and had dolls and posters of the animated character plastered all over her bedroom. Lindsay’s mom teased her about wanting to marry Jasmine when she grew up.

Nowadays, reading lesbian romance novels on her iPad was a guilty pleasure. Most of the pornography she watched was of women her age getting it on with each other too. She could never grow tired of girl-girl action. The female body was too captivating and erotic to ignore.

She snapped back to reality. What am I thinking? I looooove cock, and always will. Yet at the same time, Pamela’s dress clutched the outline of her breasts that Lindsay’s tongue wanted to follow desperately. Her mouth flooded with moisture.

As luck would have it, she figured that soon enough, a customer would want a ménage à trois, and she’d suck cock and eat pussy concurrently. Oh, I’d give anything to be in a threesome. Her mind a buzzing mass of static, it was enough to give Lindsay reassurance that, at least for now, she’d made the right decision.

“Don't worry, Colt is the sweetest guy,” Pamela said.

Speaking of crushes, I could develop one for Miss Nevada here in a hurry. Moments ago, the possibility of meeting Colt excited Lindsay. She swooned over Jim and was developing an infatuation for Pamela too. Maybe all of them can gang-bang me.

“A lot of turnouts are apprehensive, even scared, to meet Colt for the first time. There's no reason to be. Be yourself, honey, and don't worry.” Pamela placed two fingertips on the back of Lindsay's neck and applied gentle pressure. “Oooooh, you're so tense. You need to loosen up.”

Was Lindsay nervous due to the fact she was about to be introduced to her potential new boss? Or was it because she imagined Pamela having her way with her too?

“Don't try to impress him or you may come across as insincere. He won’t like that.” Sunshine abounded in Pamela’s eyes and her soft, pleasant voice overran Lindsay’s senses. “Be straightforward and honest with everything he asks, and you'll be fine. Colt may be by-the-book, but he's really a big teddy bear.”

Lindsay plastered on yet another smile. “Okay.” She sensed Pamela was trying to ease her nerves but ended up having the opposite effect. Lindsay closed her eyes and summoned a deep breath, held it in for a spell, then blindly glanced heavenward for strength. You got this.

“Jim, please go back and check on Kenzie. She needs you.”

“Oh?” He diverted his attention away from the newspaper. “Why? Is anything wrong?”

“She had a five-hour party with an older gentleman last night, and they both had way too much to drink. They were at it like crazed jackrabbits 'til three in the morning. Kenzie woke up a few minutes ago and has a massive hangover.”

“Oh, boy. Not again.” Jim winced and shoved the Las Vegas Review-Journal aside. “I'll see what I can do. That girl never has learned how to control her alcohol intake.”

“I love your denim shorts.” Pamela was still gabbing nonstop as she soon strolled down the hallway arm-in-arm with Lindsay. “You have a nice little booty. So firm, so tight. I bet you get a lot of exercise, don’t you?”

“Th-Thank you. Yes. Yes, I do. I mean, I try to, at least.” Nice little booty? Lindsay tossed her backpack over her opposite shoulder and fanned herself with an open palm. She had never been spoken to like this before, that’s for sure, but figured it may be par for the course here. No inhibitions. No boundaries.

“Your tank top is super cute too. You picked the perfect outfit for today – Colt loves his girls in tank tops and cutoff shorts.” Pamela slid her hand to the small of Lindsay's back and guided her through the corridor while also allowing her to go first. “The country girl theme is a fetish of his. He's kind of weird with certain things.” Pamela lowered her voice to the tiniest of whispers. “But that's one reason why everyone here loves him so much. He's unique.”

Lindsay leaned in closer. “Unique? How so?”

“The first time we had sex back in 2006, Colt made me keep my clothes on for the first forty-five minutes.” Pamela’s eyes sparkled. “Wouldn't let me take 'em off.”

An alarm bell rang in Lindsay’s mind. “That's … different.” But her thoughts were elsewhere. Colt's kinks aside, Pamela’s words indicated this was a house where management fooled around with their employees after all. I’m okay with that. Lindsay again fantasized about meeting up with Jim later and giving him a sloppy cocksucking. Or, better yet, having Pamela ravage her like a lesbian plaything. I’d like for her to go ham on me.

Pamela’s hand was still at the base of Lindsay’s spine. Part of her wished Pamela would lead her to the nearest bedroom instead of Colt's office. Forget just going ham. Make me your bitch, why don’t you?

“Colt is different, that’s for sure.”

That voice! I knew something about you was familiar. After Lindsay applied on the website three weeks ago and attached photographs, Pamela telephoned a few hours later for a follow-up. I remember now. Lindsay was in her room with the door locked. Mom was creepin’ out in the hallway, tryin’ to get all up in my bizness.

“Management doesn’t want model-type or prom pictures where you’re dolled-up and glamorous. We want to see the pictures you have on your cell phone. We want to know what you look like for real. And it has nothing to do with age or beauty or body. We want to offer our customers a varied mix is all. Men like all types, you know. If you want any further consideration for a job, send a couple more pics to me. Real ones. Here, I'll give you my text number. It's a burner phone.”

Who is Pamela anyway? Lindsay tucked her tongue into her cheek and stared off into the distance. Was she the house madam? No, not a chance. House madams didn’t walk around in tiny yellow dresses with fishnet stockings and blingy rhinestone, three-inch platforms and sky-high stripper heels. Lindsay’s understanding was they were older ladies who dressed in everyday attire and policed the goings-on in the brothel with an iron fist. Someone like Mom, minus the working in a brothel part. She couldn’t envision a working girl – a courtesan they called them in the business – handling interviews like this.

“Were you a cheerleader in high school? A gymnast?”

“I did a bit of everything in high school,” Lindsay answered with blushing cheeks. “As much as a small school in a backward town could offer, at least.”

“I can tell.” Pamela’s thumb stroked the exact spot on Lindsay’s lower back that invariably made her lose all sense of time and place. “And your smile. I love the way it lights up the entire house. So pretty, so … photogenic.”

“Uhh, yeah. Thank you.” Arousal swarmed through Lindsay as Pamela skimmed her spine. “I inherited it from my mom.” What's going on here? Shouldn't Jim be the one to introduce me to the owner? Not that she had any complaints, but why was it Pamela instead of Jim? He was the manager. She was just a regular employee.

Right?

Pamela knocked, then opened the door without waiting for an invitation or even an acknowledgment. Wow. Sure is ballsy of her, isn't it? Knowing the head honcho awaited inside, Lindsay tried to suppress the bright glow of fear that washed over her like a seismic sea wave.

“Colt, hi. How are you? This is your eleven-fifty appointment, Lindsay …” Pamela eyed the paper she was holding, “… Anastacio. A sweet little thing fresh from the pumpkin patch in California.” She glanced back over her shoulder. “Come on in, baby. Don't be shy. I promise we won't bite.” Pamela's body swayed to an unheard rhythm. “Not unless you want us to, that is.”

Head still down, goosebumps chased the hairs on the back of Lindsay’s neck outward. Dammit. Lindsay hated letting fear get the better of her.

She’d done exhaustive research on Colton David McCarron, a forty-four-year-old who inherited Happy Ending Ranch after his father lost a prolonged battle with cancer ten years ago. Mr. McCarron had worked here under his dad’s tutelage since 1992 and held degrees in both Business Administration and Finance.

Online news clippings detailed the philanthropy Colt did in Flagstone and the surrounding areas. He donated thousands of dollars every year to Cancer Care Center Las Vegas, the American Red Cross, the local animal rescue, and various battered women's shelters up and down the west coast. Though the media portrayed him as an upstanding citizen, he had to fend off city lawmakers and activist groups round the clock who preferred his business have its doors forcibly closed forever.

Lindsay read several quotes where Colt defended his brothel and its place in the community. “Our customers stay at the Twin Tops Motel, go to local restaurants, and purchase admission to the museum. They buy gasoline at Great Basin Travel Stop, shop at Flagstone Foods, and purchase gifts at various shops for our employees. For many people from all over the country, if not the world itself, Flagstone is their once-a-year vacation. Our business alone makes it a destination. I doubt they’d ever come here again if city council approved this measure and forced us to close our doors forever.”

Lindsay's laundry list of worries came crashing back in. What if she wasn’t attractive enough? What if Colt didn't like her? I spent my last dime to get here and have no way back home. Gooseflesh rose stiff and fast on her arms. What happens if all my plans backfire? This man, the big boss, held her future in his hands. I must impress him.

The absolute last thing Lindsay wanted was to call her parents and ask for money to return to Citronelle a mere twenty-four hours after leaving. It would humiliate her, and she’d be scared to death to leave that tiny hick town ever again. RIP my life … it’d be officially over.

Lindsay didn't want to settle for the sake of settling, and in no way, shape, or form did she want to marry Zack Cameron and pop out a couple of kids for him. Zack may have been a helluva fuck, but he was a conceited, arrogant jerk, and far more in love with himself than her. He's a heartless, disgusting pig; a pretty boy jock who thinks the universe revolves around him. Unfortunately, the pickings were slim back home. Who else could she date? Zack treated me like shit. I hate him.

Yet throughout high school, she kept crawling back for more. Never again! I’m better than that now.

“Oh … hey, Lindsay. You're early.”

With that deep, masculine voice, her eyes flashed up and made contact with Colt for the first time.

Holy fuck!

Colt looked devastatingly handsome in a finely pressed purple dress shirt with the top two buttons undone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows with biceps bulging underneath, and a pair of black slacks. At six-foot-two with broad shoulders and every fiber of his being oozing control and assertiveness, he fit Lindsay's qualifications for an older man to a T and then some – stylish, windblown brown hair; smoldering, dark eyes; a rigid jaw peppered with scruff; and a ripped, tanned physique.

A quickening flared in the depths of her belly. What a snack! Colt wasn’t human. No way he could be. He was just too … perfect.

Feminine instincts took over. Lindsay did what she could to make herself appear more desirable, jutting out her breasts and giving her hips a little shimmy. Using her sexuality to obtain what she wanted wasn’t her preferred method, but dang it, when it always worked so well, what better option did she have? Especially in a brothel.

He gazed right back with a gleam in his eyes that made every cell in her body surge with electricity. “I'm Colt McCarron, the general manager of Happy Ending Ranch.”

Wait, what? Lindsay snapped to attention and did a double take. Did you say … general manager?

“Such a pleasure to meet you. Been a long time coming, hasn't it? Please, come in. Sit down and relax.”

“I thought … you were the … the … the … owner?” Lindsay could barely squeak out those words as another searing blush spread across her face. Shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit! Grab a hold of yourself!

“I am but prefer not to use that term. Not in the workplace, at least.” Colt’s voice was smooth with the perfect amount of rasp. “Others may take offense or perceive it the wrong way. I prefer general manager.”

“Oh.”

“Please excuse my mess. I've been doing a bit of summer cleaning so far today.”

Mess? What mess? Lindsay didn’t find anything to be out of place in the office. Organized and spotless, the fragrance of leather, wood, and orange furniture polish surrounded her. I wish my room back home was this tidy. Mom wouldn't have nagged on me to clean it day after day.

“How are you? I trust you had an okay trip?”

She lowered her gaze as goosebumps pebbled her arms once more. What's going on? This was a deep attraction from her end – a spark, a tingle, a zip, something. She was mute with desire. Lindsay had never experienced this type of feeling before and couldn’t decide whether she loved it or hated it. Her whole body was trembling.

“You're from California, huh? We love those California blondes in these parts.”

Pamela had been strangely quiet as she moved her hand across Lindsay's back and massaged it. Not accustomed to such a gentle touch, it threw Lindsay for a loop. Zack would paw and grope, but Pamela's fingertips resembled a soothing, tender caress, a whisper in the wind. “You're so shy! Speak up, honey.” She slid her thumb along the shell of Lindsay’s ear. “Don't be afraid. No need to be afraid.”

“Hi, I'm … Lindsay. It's a pleasure … to … to meet you … too.” She rubbed her forearms and clenched her jaw shut. Well, zoinks. There goes my chance at getting a job. Could I be any more of a cheugy?

Colt smiled regardless, stepped forward, and offered his hand.

Look at those hands! So sexy. Much larger than Jim’s, Colt had enormous hands, and Lindsay feared he could snap her wrists like twigs if he got the urge. Yikes. The thought aroused the submissive in her.

She accepted his hand and shook it. The sight of the veins popping in his wrist almost caused her to topple head over heels. Her own hand was a mitten in comparison, and the exchange made her feel feminine and safe. This attraction thing was no joke. Is he spoken for? Taken? I don’t see a wedding ring. Lindsay wanted to throw herself at Colt and succumb to his every desire. She wanted him to possess her, claim her, keep her. She wanted to be his, his … his sex slave!

What's happening to me? What did I get myself into?

Evie was right! I am an oversexed little tart!

Slow the fuck down, girlfriend. Lindsay shifted from one foot to the other. Time to be an adult. She needed to be rational and keep her emotions in check. This was a job interview. If things went according to plan, she’d have plenty of time to throw herself at others later. Best of all, she would get paid for it too.

Oh, fuck! Lindsay's internal temperature spiked as Colt's eyes bore down and studied her from head to toe. Guys checking her out wasn’t anything new, and Lindsay often received a quick, cheap thrill from it.

But with Colt, it was much more intense. This guy is GQ. His unwavering gaze incinerated her right down into the carpet itself. His mannerisms were blatant and unapologetic as he inspected her body like it was a piece of property to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. Oh, dear God … what’s happening to me? Why do I feel this way?

Colt's presence encapsulated Lindsay, wrapped her into a tight, unbreakable cocoon, and simultaneously deconstructed her. The difference in their heights was just as pronounced as the difference in their ages. Please, please, I’ll do anything to get this job. She desperately hoped she was pretty enough for him to help fuel up and rush along the locomotive of her damnation express.

*

As a seasoned proprietor in the sex industry who worked alongside centerfold-lookalikes daily, Colt noticed physical details about every woman he encountered, whether on the job or in his personal, everyday life. It wasn’t intentional on his part. Rather, an inherent reflex as natural as breathing.

His initial observation of Lindsay was her luxurious, sunrise-gold hair and how it complemented the healthy glow of her skin. With it styled in a bushy, vibrant ponytail, he could tell this girl was a natural blonde – the essence of summer, a goddess of the sun. Had her hairstyle been ornate, such as an intricate waterfall mermaid braid, he would have assumed she was too high maintenance and not worth the investment. I don’t hire girls who come across as full of themselves.

Lindsay was a total vision of loveliness who seemed way too sweet and wholesome to be searching for a job in the skin trade. There was no edge, nothing frayed. A true, quintessential All-American girl, the eighteen-year-old was apple pie, bliss-blue eyes, and warm, quiet nights on the front porch swing.

She’s nervous, I can tell, and unsure of herself, but we can work with her to build up some confidence.

More than pretty, Lindsay had nary a blemish, her complexion as naturally colorful as a fashion model wearing the most expertly applied cosmetics. She exuded kindness and was the type of girl, Colt sensed, who prioritized the happiness of others well beyond her own. A little giver. Fresh from the pumpkin patch, indeed.

Colt found his eyes gravitating toward the pink luster of her lips. Upon realization, Lindsay’s mouth curved into a gracious smile, and warmth radiated from her pores. God, those lips are divine. Full and expressive, and dare he think it, rife for sucking dick.

If he wound up offering her a position and she accepted, one thing was for certain: that mouth would receive a heavy workload here.

Tight, flawless breasts strained hard against the fabric of Lindsay's white tank top and its single black pocket, begging for freedom. Lovely, but does she think not wearing a bra is gonna persuade me, of all people, into hiring her? The clingy tank top also highlighted a flat, narrow waist.

Lindsay had stylish rips in the front of her denim shorts, which fit her style, and wore Chuck Taylors on her feet. Classic California Girl look. She may not have possessed long, showgirl-type legs, but hers were firm and toned from a background in athletics and could hold their own alongside any working girl in a lineup. Or any Hollywood starlet on the red carpet.

In Colt’s mind, Lindsay Anastacio ranked as one of the top five most compelling women he’d ever invited into his office for an interview. Aww, hell … maybe she’s as high as number two, I don’t know. She was slender but curved everywhere a woman should be. An aroma of fragrant perfume surrounded her, lush and sultry like exotic flowers.

Colt couldn’t help himself. He reached out and placed a hand on the tight swell of her backside.

*

Lindsay flinched at first contact, her skin ablaze where he’d touched her. Seriously, is this part of the interview? She stared back with fingers fanned against her sternum. Getting groped during a job interview would be grounds for a lawsuit anywhere else. But she wasn’t anywhere else, she was at Happy Ending Ranch. This is Bizarro World. Lindsay had stepped into a whole new reality where all the rules were different.

Oh God. He just slid his thumb over my pussy!

She stood frozen, her mouth agape, unable to protest or utter a single word in response. Her thoughts, any rationale, wouldn’t line up. They just tumbled down with each attempt and scattered the rest. Colt's grip on her ass was firm and all man. It pulsed with the dominance she’d forever sensed an older lover would exert over her.

Lindsay's pupils dilated, and she witnessed, in her mind’s eye, Colt’s rugged hand gripping her neck and his dick nestled in her mouth, moving in and out with hard thrusts. If you want this job, you’re going to have to earn it.

Lindsay whipped her head about and again bounced back to reality. OhmiGod, am I even worse and more depraved than all those things Evie used to tease me about? She couldn’t believe a man she met less than two minutes ago was fondling her like this. Normal people would scream bloody murder, but Lindsay wanted Colt to take things even further. My panties are wet.

Would she one day be like those trashy girls on the daytime talk shows that her mom would scoff at? Or, worse yet, would she and her mother both be guests on a “Save My Daughter” episode? Talk about a nightmare. But by that point, I’d probably be too turnt up to even realize what was happening.

“Hmm, Lindsay. Super tight and sexy. Almost perfect in every regard.”

When is it my turn to put my hands on you? This man was a knight, an immovable wall of thick, sexy muscle, his shirt clinging to every contour of his insanely defined chest. Lust chased frustration up and down Lindsay’s body. And when he smiled his approval, her insides dissolved to mush. Ooey, gooey, euphoric mush.

Amused at the spectacle, Pamela again caressed the spot on Lindsay’s back that sent her mind teetering even further.

I think I might faint.

Colt hovered a finger close to Lindsay's breasts but didn't touch them. “I can definitely see a long and profitable future for you here.” His hand moved upward and brushed a tendril of hair away from Lindsay’s face. “If you can handle yourself and maintain the proper attitude, I see no reason you shouldn't expect to have four to five customers a week to start, if not more.”

She imagined kneeling at his feet with both wrists bound behind her back and his hard cock again in her mouth. A brisk face-fucking, being used for pleasure, as an object, thoroughly disciplined and enjoyed by him and by those whom he rented her out to.

“And ten or more once you build a following and word-of-mouth spreads on our bulletin board and website.”

Breath exploded from her lips. Ten customers a week? I’d have sex with ten strangers every week?

“Please, sit down. Relax. Take a seat.”

Take a seat? What Lindsay preferred was to nestle in Colt's lap and grind her ass over it like a dirty girl, but she let out a tiny mew instead, uncrossed her arms, and obeyed. Are you not attracted to me? Ice coated her skin. Please, sir, touch me some more. Lindsay would do anything Colt asked in the bedroom, or right in this very office, to receive a job offer. She’d strip off her clothing and beg for his cock if that’s what it took. I’d suck it dry and swallow your cum every day if you told me to. She would bend over the desk and offer her backside up for a spanking, and … and … and even fucking.

“Should I stick around or not?”

“C'mon now, Pamela.” With a professional, steadfast demeanor, Colt’s voice lowered in pitch as he returned to his desk and shot her a sideways glare. “You already know the answer to that, don't you?”

Pamela nodded avidly and settled onto the pull-out sofa, patting Lindsay’s kneecap. “It's okay, honey.” While Lindsay straightened her tank top with long, skittish strokes, joy and anticipation pinwheeled across Pamela’s face. “I know being here is nerve-wracking, so try to relax. This isn't an interview at the neighborhood burger joint. You're in a brothel, and I remember how scared I was my first day too. We want you to succeed, but most of all, we want you to be comfortable.”

Lindsay shifted her weight, her legs quivering. Settle down. Stay strong and think about your future. This is a job interview, not a casting couch in the San Fernando Valley. You can do this. Remember, fear is for the weak.

Colt was already typing on his laptop. “So, you want to be a sex worker, huh? Not a typical career choice for someone your age.” He paused and saw familiarity with her abrupt deer-in-the-headlights visage. “Going over your application and the background check we pulled, your full name is Lindsay Michelle Anastacio, you're eighteen, and live in Citronelle, California. Born December 4, 1999, and the third of four children to Leslie and Donald Anastacio. All daughters …” His head twirled about. “… I like that. Sisters are named Gina, Jennifer, and Alison. Gina and Jennifer are college students, I see, and Alison is still attending high school. You’ve lived in the same exact house your entire life. No criminal record to speak of either.” His face opened wide with curiosity. “Is my information correct?”

Something volatile and irrational shot through her veins. “Yes sir.” You learned all that from a simple background check?

“Loosen up.” Pamela settled deeper into the sofa and chuckled, a throaty, uninhibited laugh. Lindsay could tell she was a good person. Unique, for sure, and a bit too perky, but good, nonetheless. Pamela's warm nature wasn’t an act.

She’s so trill.

“We're all friends here. It's not life and death.” Pamela's eyes bound Lindsay with a flirtatious stare. “You’re such a pretty girl. It’s unbelievable how pretty you are.”

“I agree with Pamela – relax. You want some water?” Colt said, his voice an uncharacteristic murmur. “Try to think of this as your typical job interview, okay? It’s nothing more.”

Turnouts walking in off the street and being intimidated was old hat for Colt. He recalled Pamela sitting on that same sofa twelve years ago and reacting the same way Lindsay did now. He often wondered whether it was him or the fact these girls were in a brothel and a few steps away from selling their body for the first time.

“Are your mom and dad aware you're here wanting to get a job with us? Your siblings? Grandparents? Aunts? Uncles? Cousins?”

“No sir.” Lindsay coughed and fidgeted with her necklace. Snap out of it! Though her head pounded, she was determined not to fold underneath all this pressure.

Not only would Lindsay sit here and answer these questions, but she was going to force herself to relax too. She dropped her shoulders a little, but then her heart pinched. “I told them I was moving to Las Vegas and a hotel on The Strip wanted to hire me as a maid, and they offered a reduced rate for employees on room and board.”

“You'll need a better cover story. I doubt yours will hold up over time.” Colt directed his focus back to the laptop. “Over seventy-five percent of the girls here haven’t told their parents they're a working girl. Pamela’s been doing this since 2006, and no one in her family has the slightest clue.” His gaze flashed upward. “They’re under the assumption Pamela models professionally and earns money from her fashion and advice vlogs on YouTube and an online clothing store she has on Etsy. She does, technically, and from other things, too; however they have no idea her principal job is being a working girl. A provider.” A sour expression filtered across his features. “They'd kill me if they ever found out.”

They'd kill you? Why? What did Colt mean? Although she was leering at his sleek, flexing muscles, Lindsay had countless questions. Did Pamela's family know about Colt? Had they met him in person? If so, why would she introduce her brothel owner boss to her family? That makes no sense either.

Pamela clutched Lindsay’s hand, creating indentations on her skin. “I started when I was eighteen, the same as you. I'm thirty now.”

Wait, what? Thirty? To Lindsay, Pamela didn’t look a day over twenty-one. I’m legit shook. No, wait up, again. Was Pamela joking? She had to be. But why would she? No woman in her right mind would tack an additional nine years on to her age, even as a joke. Shit, I hope I can be half as attractive as you when I’m thirty.

“This is the only brothel I've ever worked at. I'll never work at another.” An easy laugh reached Pamela’s eyes, spreading small lines outward. “Other houses have tried to poach me away several times over the years, haven't they?”

“They don't realize you belong to me.” Colt's tone was soft and dangerous and made Lindsay wary.

A smirk slid up one half of Pamela’s face. “You belong to me, too, baby.”

Lindsay sensed a powerful chemistry swirling between these two. What's the dirty scoop? Are they fucking? Was that standard between management and employee in this house? Does he fuck all the girls on the side? Does Jim too? Do they take their turns or tag-team them at once? Or was it something deeper? I need to know!

Is Pamela sweet on Colt? Did he cut her breaks in return? Discounts? Yeah, yeah, I bet that’s it. Maybe I can earn my share of discounts too.

Lindsay had the urge to run her fingertips along the stubble of Colt's jaw and kiss every square inch of his magnificent face. Jesus, what am I? A bitch in heat?

(End of Chapter One - to be continued)