A dark and rainy night. Roaring thunder. Even though nature's outburst of rage had caused a blackout, more guests than usual had found their way into big ol' Tom's tavern. Some of them for shelter from the pouring rain. The vast majority, however, for a good evening filled with stories being told at the bar in the midst of the dim flickering light of the many lit candles, for the tavern was also known as 'The Place Where Stories Are Told'.

A power breakdown had never been a reason to keep his tavern closed for big ol' Tom. Oh, no. These incidents always seemed to attract even more customers than he was usually hosting. Was it for the particular atmosphere?

“...and then she just disappeared in the blackness of the alley right the way she had come from. I've never seen her again. But ever since that day, I can't recall one single unlucky day.”

The guests applauded the slightly tipsy man who had just finished telling his story. To thank all his attentive listeners, he ordered a round for everyone and stood on his stool to propose a toast.

“I... uh... want to... erm...”

A cold wet wind came through the double-wing door all the way to the bar as the door flung open. The flames from the candles were blown so much it appeared very improbable that they'd stay lit. But they did. An elderly lady stepped in. A strong blast slammed the door closed once said lady had walked into the old tavern.

Her tired and sad eyes scanned the whole place: the laboriously sculptured oak pillars, the small round windows, the wooden casks above the bar containing the best selection of single malt scotch. It all reminded her of a hobbit cottage a bit. Add the candlelight, the mother of a thunderstorm outside, all the people looking at her as though she was a ghost... the perfect atmosphere to tell a good story.

Her eyes were pale, her face looked resigned.

She slowly walked towards the crowd sitting at the bar. Big ol' Tom's broad smile was hidden behind his thick mustache. He knew that this one individual would tell the one story that night. The one story that left no mouth closed, and no wish unfulfilled.

The crowd gathered around the old mahogany bar made a hole for the aged lady. One of the customers gave up his stool for her. It was the very stool right in front of where big ol' Tom was standing on the opposite side of the bar.

“My, my, look who we got here,” he said, leaning over the wooden desk. “Long time no see, Lucille. What's it been? Twenty years? Thirty? Maybe more?”

Lucille chuckled.

“Still making fun of our age, Thomas? It's barely been ten years, but you're right, we were already wrinkly back then.”

Big ol' Tom began to prepare a coffee for Lucille. A coffee black as the night, just the way she loved it.

“So how's your little stick insect Rambo doing? You got too old for him?”

“Oh Thomas... Yes, sure he was one hell of a bossy tyrant, though probably not even eighty pounds soaking wet, but as you know... Sometimes loves takes the weirdest turns...”

Lucille gladly accepted her coffee, took a short sip, and let out a heavy sigh, before she went on.

“You know, Thomas, what they say about the good ones dying young'?”

Big ol' Tom smirked.

“'Only the good die young,' huh? Yes, I do. And I think that's great because this way, I know I'll get at least 250.”

“If only you knew...” she replied. “That's just total bullshit.”

She paused for a moment.

“That stick insect Rambo—or whatever the hell you just called him—passed away a few days after I last saw you. His liver... No wonder, considering his drinking habits. He was a real tyrant with everyone. Ever since that day he died, I kept asking myself why I could ever have fallen in love with him if I could have had someone like you.”

Another sip of coffee was slowly sucked between her lips into her mouth.

“What's that tear I see there, Lulu?” asked big ol' Tom.

“One isolated case makes no rule. Do you remember back in time when you used to tell me I was a good girl? And no, not because of all the pleasures I was giving you, no. It was because you saw a side of me that no one else had ever seen before; even though it lay there open to everyone's eyes. I really was the good girl. And look at me now: old, wrinkly, and sad.”

A tear fell from her cheek into her coffee.

“After all I did, after all these efforts, this is the way I'm gonna spend my last hours... Here in this bar, drinking and babbling about the 'good old times' that never existed.”

She paused.

“You know... I went to the doctor's the other day. Must've been two weeks, or maybe a few more days. A routine check. Who doesn't need these at our age? And there it was... Clear signs that something was wrong. Sure I had noticed a steadily increasing pain in my belly, but who would have thought of pancreatic cancer? Final stage. Metastases all over my body. They gave me three weeks at max, a whole lotta painkillers, and their best wishes for my new life on the other side, that is, if there is one. What you hear talking now is a hopeless overdose of paracetamol, morphine and Xanax... For the panic. Is this the way the good die young?”

“I'm sorry to hear that, Lulu. And I feel honored to be your last host, so be my guest.”

Lucille chuckled again.

“Is this all you have to say, Thomas? To your old... dying love? I would have expected a little more compassion from a former wooer of mine.”

The crowd gasped. Had she really said wooer? To big ol' Tom?

The old barista sighed, “Now look what you've done, Lulu. They all want to hear a story, I guess.”

He paused to look at all the open-mouthed faces.

“So shall we? You know how I always loved to listen to you telling our story. Drinks on the house, you know the rule. Whatcha say, huh?”

A sad smile flashed across Lucille's wrinkled lips. She nodded in approval.

“Sure, Thomas. But I'll start a little ahead. We've got the whole night...”

----------------

...it starts back when I was a kid. I grew up on my daddy's farm in Tenessee. He practically raised me on his own, and I raised both my sisters. Yes, there sure had once been a mother, but she passed away when I was seven years old. One harvest morning, they found her dead and lying in a freshly trimmed stubble field. Two shots in her chest... The murderer was never found.

She left my father alone to raise me, and my two younger sisters; two and three years old. So how do you imagine you explain these little rugrats that Mommy isn't around no more if you yourself are not even halfway aware of what death actually is? And Daddy? Too busy milking our cows. So guess who had to be the good girl.

Well, I can't blame my father. He had a tough job. Even tougher after his beloved Rosemary had died. There was no time for mourning. Now, there were a farm and three hungry kids to look after. So he raised me, and I raised both my sisters and tried my best to give him a hand as soon as I was tall and strong enough.

School? What's that? The eldest son from the neighboring farm taught me how to read, basic arithmetics, and a few things that were useful in daily life, and I passed the knowledge on to my younger sisters; just like a good girl does.

And then—of course—came puberty. I guess most of you are familiar with the stereotypical teenager, right? Sixteen, maybe a little more, rebellious, bold and oh-so-omniscient. Me? The stereotype squared. Not only did my dad have a hard time keeping things running on the farm, but suddenly he had to handle a girl who wanted to go out, see boys, do boys, do drugs, and become a little disgrace. And all that just to shake off that 'good-girl' feeling.

Do drugs, you ask? Believe me, even in these 'good old times' people were as drug-addicted as they are today.

This phase didn't last for too long, though. Didn't take me long to realize my daddy only wanted the best for me, and how much he depended on an additional hand or two at the farm. So did I for him and my sisters. However, a tiny part of my rebellious side kept alive. I had it gathering dust in some dark corner of my mind. It waited there. Just waited. Waited for the right moment to sneak into my consciousness again and slowly eat the good girl I was alive.

And one day, it just became too much for me. The farm, my share of the work, raising my sisters. I just couldn't stand being the good girl anymore.

It was in the fall of '54 when I left the farm long before the first daylight. I was only seventeen. People were poor in this county, so I couldn't count on their mercy to pick me up and feed me.

It took me almost a month to find that particular place. I was almost starved to death, but had nothing to pay for the food I so desperately needed. They didn't even have the pity to just give me a slice of old and dry bread or a spoonful of water. When was so weak that I passed out, I fell into someone's arms.

Two girls so beautiful I thought I had to be in heaven had prevented me from falling to the ground. I could hardly make out the words they tried to tell me. Just something of 'Momma Ann', the 'Red House' and 'stay with us'.

The next time I opened my eyes, I was sitting in front of a menu so ample and delicious I had never seen or tasted before. On the opposite side of the table sat a lady in her late thirties. This had to be 'Momma Ann' I thought. She motioned me to eat, but I was so captured by her beauty that I couldn't take my tired eyes off her.

“C'mon kid,” she said with true concern in her voice, “be a dear, and eat a bunch.”

And the good girl didn't need any more orders. I started eating like a starved pig. I just needed it.

While I was eating I couldn't help noticing that I was surrounded by roughly a dozen stunningly beautiful girls, wearing all kinds of—let's say unusual—outfits: a corset, a French maid's dress, a skin-tight black robe; just the sort of outfits you'd see in your typical whorehouse. They were all dressed to kill as though they were attending a seductiveness contest.

“So tell me, kid,” said Momma Ann, “ what's your name? And what got you in this miserable shape?”

I replied while gnawing on some spare ribs, “Name's Lucille. I ran away from [chomp] home [chomp, chomp]. Just tired [chomp] of being the good girl [chomp]. So I [chomp, chomp, chomp] just crashed here [chomp].”

“Poor thing. Tired of being the good girl, huh? We've all been there, Lucille. But let me tell you that if you want to stop being the good girl, this might not be the best place. Why? Because we're all good girls. We're good girls for a living. Good for the frustrated men. That's what we're paid for. That's what we do. We're a brothel. But not any brothel. We're renowned for our high standards.”

Momma Ann threw me a deprecatory glance.

“Your habit of talking while having your mouth full, for instance, does not meet with our standards.”

“But getting your mouths filled does, right?” I answered, making the girls laugh.

“Kid, you're just sitting here and filling your starved belly at my expense only because my girls had mercy with you. If it were for me, you'd still be lying there and die. That clear for you?”

I ignored her comments on my behavior.

“But I have something to offer you, girl.”

She paused.

“You're probably looking for a job, right? So listen. I could offer you to work here. I'd be your new Mommy. When there's any trouble with a customer, we're a family, and I'm the mother. Don't fuck with Don. He's my husband, and he runs the show here, which makes him your new Daddy. You'll get to know him soon enough, but he won't be around too much. But before we come to that, I'll have to teach you some manners. Not only are we a family, we're pros. Real fucking pros, in every way of the expression. So now, how old are you?”

“Seventeen, your highness.”

I said that with an obviously fake submissive expression. The girls giggled again, although aware of how severe Momma Ann was when challenged.

“Cut the giggling, girls!” she ordered. “As for you, Lucille... I'll teach you some manners. I'll let it slide for this time, but don't you think you'll ever get away with that again, you hear me?”

I nodded while chewing up the remains of these delicious ribs.

“You're seventeen, you said? This could cause problems. Just don't tell Don, okay? But considering your lack of manners, you'll have to be re-educated for maybe a year. This, of course, is if you're taking my offer. Before you do so, consider that you'll have a whole year of the most rigorous education ahead. And after that, you'll be escorting and fucking guys for a living. You'll be the good girl, come what may.”

“I'll take it!” I exclaimed.

Did I have any choice? Not in the eyes of a seventeen-year-old runaway wannabe-disgrace.

What followed were months of catching up on what I had missed during the time I hadn't been to school. It was a hard time. I had to study my share of history, art, literature, music, culture, and dance so I could keep up with the Red House's standards of escort service. I was also instructed in the virtues of pleasuring my future clients. All lessons were given to me by my sisters.

Ah, Roxanne... The mere thought of her... I almost fell in love with her.

----------------

“But that—as you, dear listeners, have probably guessed—was a taboo.”

Old Lucille pointed her index finger to her empty coffee mug.

“Let's add another stiff dose of caffeine in these already pretty poisoned veins, shall we?”

Her coughs sounded as if her lungs had suffered long-term exposures to mustard gas.

“My, listen to that... Seems like I ain't got all night after all, huh?” she sarcastically said reaching out for her refilled mug big ol' Tom handed her.

----------------

Roxanne—I said, right?—was my dancing instructor, and one of Momma Ann's daughters as well. All my instructors belonged to the family.

Well, Roxanne was an extraordinary dancer. The way she moved her body was just breathtaking. I could never decide which part of her was the most appealing. Was it her hourglass figure that was so accentuated by the skin-tight tank top she always wore for the dancing lessons? Was it the shape of her knees and calves inside these white leggings? Was it the sparkling in her deep blue eyes when she showed me the figures? Or was it the way she impersonated the male dance partner? I don't know.

It happened at the end of a classical dance lesson. Both of us were totally exhausted. The mirrors and the windows of the dancing hall were completely steamed up. We were drenched in our sweat. Our clothes were sticking to our skin. My eyes were captured by the sight of Roxanne's small luscious breasts, exposed by the white tank-top gone transparent.

“One last dance, Lulu?” she asked me.

Oh hell yeah! I mean... That sight... Delicious! I sincerely hope, dear listeners, that no one of you did already cream their pants.

I needn't say we didn't even think about actual dancing, do I?

As soon as I was in her arms and felt her sweaty body hit mine... We looked into each other's eyes—no, we drowned in each other's eyes, lost ourselves in each other's eyes.

She licked her lips. My eyes followed her tongue. My hand cupped her cheekbone. She gasped. Her arm pressing me to her. My eyes closed. Her sweet lips on mine. My tongue searching hers. We kissed. We sucked. We caressed. We parted. Our eyes locked together.

Again.

We kissed. We sucked. We made out. We parted.

She let me go of my arms. I couldn't find the words.

“Go now, Lulu,” she said.

I was perplexed. I shook my head.

“You heard me, girl.”

I turned around and awkwardly walked away.

Had that really happened? Had I been dreaming? No, I hadn't. I could still sense her taste on my lips.

Just before I shut the door behind me, I heard her add, “Wait for me in the shower.”

I ran to the changing room. Why? I was filled with the expectations of a young girl anticipating her first girl-on-girl escapade. Who wouldn't be so impatient? I'm sure everyone here has felt that way before spending their first sexual adventure with someone. But would running make Roxanne sneak into the shower earlier? Of course not.

The warm water ran over my body. I waited to pour the body wash into my hands and clean my body, for I was afraid I might wash off my lusty anticipations as well. Or was it because I kind of expected Roxanne to run her soapy hands over my body as foreplay?

I was humming a lullaby my mother used to sing to me when I was a kid as two arms seized me from behind. The shock paralyzed me for a moment.

“Don't stop, it's beautiful” Roxanne's voice told me.

I resumed humming the melody as her lips started nibbling on my neck. She put her hands on mine. I tilted my head so she could kiss me. The kiss was deep and longing for more. Touches, caresses, kisses, licks, moans...

I spun out of her embrace to take her into my arms and see her naked body. It was ravishingly beautiful. As I caught a glance of her neatly trimmed orange curls right above her pussy lips, I knew what made her so attractive to my view. It was her hair, her orange hair. She was a genuine redhead, a ginger as some may refer to them. These orange curls and her sea-blue eyes—a unique combination, I tell you.

She smiled at me as she filled her palms with the lemon body wash. First, my hair. I felt my whole body relax as she massaged my scalp. The way my boobs slipped through her slick hands made both of us laugh.

Oh yes, dear listeners, there was a time when there wasn't a navel between these saggy ol' orbs. What? Too much information? Did I just turn you off? That'll come again, don't worry, it'll come again.

Though warmed up by the running water, her touch sent shivers down my spine and caused goosebumps to stick out all over my skin. Her touch created electric jolts in my body. Before long, my breaths became moans. Her hands wandered over my entire body until it was completely slick with the liquid soap.

As she let the water rinse my skin, she knelt down to suck my nipples. One hand of hers slowly inched its way down past my belly button to cup my pussy mound.

Surprised by her gentle fondling, I let out a delighted squeal. I bit my lower lip so hard from the simultaneous stimulations on my breasts and my sweet folds that it almost cracked. The pleasure had to find a way of expression. It came out in a long moan as Roxanne's middle finger probed the entrance to my tight little pussy. Even more as my walls were stretched by her second finger.

I ground my hips on the palm of her hand and pressed her body to mine. She opened her eyes to look up into mine all the while still sucking on my nipple. A sight to behold, so lustful, so thrilling.

A moan no different than an agonizing scream was released from my throat the moment I came. Roxanne let go of me with a dirty smile on her face. She kissed me and held me in her arms.

It didn't take me long to recover from my recent pleasures. While kissing her, I moved along her cheekbone to her ear, nibbled on her earlobe. My lips traced the way from her ear down her neck, to her perfect small breasts. I let my tongue circle her nipples, one after another, and stopped to wait for an approving wheeze.

The journey over her body led me over her belly button to her landing strip of short orange curls. A rich scent of pleasure filled my nostrils. On the way to finding the source of that ensorcelling aroma, I stopped between her labia to lap her erect clit with my tongue. I heard her first moans as my tongue hit her clit the first time. She leaned her back on the wall and bent her hips forward so I had better access to her aching pussy.

My hands were roaming from her belly to her thighs, and slowly to her well-toned and fleshy ass. One hand slowly traveled further down under her ass cheek and between her legs, where it found the source of the moisture that kept Roxanne's pubes so well lubricated. I pushed one finger inside her all the while pleasuring her button with my tongue.

Was she an easy girl to please? Or was I talented? With the renewing licks of my tongue and the harsh touch of my fingers, she came with a loud continuous cry.

----------------

“We could have become lovers,” the old lady stated, looking at all the open-mouthed faces.

She allowed everyone a short pause. She emptied the remains of her now cold coffee in one last sip and slammed the mug on the mahogany bar in an astonishingly agile motion for an old dying lady.

“Let's have a single malt, Thomas, shall we? How about a decent glass of good ol' peaty Lagavulin?”

Big ol' Tom poured two nosing glasses with his rare twenty-five-year-old single malt Islay whisky he only served on precious occasions like this very night.

Lucille and big ol' Tom toasted. She only wet her lips with the amber spirit as she wanted to savor this drink to the very last drop.

“We would have been a great couple. But as the story went on, she found the opportunity she had dreamed of her whole life: she became the prima ballerina in one of the most renowned concert halls in Europe.”

Lucille paused again to dip her lips in the smoky liquid.

“What happened to her?” a younger listener asked.

“She died,” was Lucille's dry answer.

The audience gasped in unison.

“Success has its dark sides, young lad,” Lucille went on. “And successful she was indeed. Before long the newspapers were filled with the young ballet shooting star.”

----------------

We kept in touch. By letters. One letter a week at least.

She shared everything with me. Her performances, her audience, her love life, her pastimes. You name it. Often enough, she wrote about how hard life as a shooting star was, but still nothing compared to certain episodes in the Red House, she admitted. She didn't get snobbish, though. She kept on being the down-to-earth girl she had always been.

However... Her success took its toll. After four years on stage, in the midst of her zenith, the stage floor ceded below her feet. The six-foot drop down to the basement floor ruined her right ankle. She never fully recovered from this accident and fell into a deep depression from which she escaped with sleeping pills.

The Red House went on offering its high-standard service in the horizontal business. By that time, I had become a customer's favorite. All sorts of wooers asked for my company during business soirées, balls, or for plain sex, role plays; anything that was up to our standards—yes, we chose our clientèle.

Among the countless men I have escorted, there was a very special one I never forgot. Being far more than a man, a friend, a lover...

----------------

“...he was the first to make use of my services.”

“...which would be me, I guess,” interjected big ol' Tom, hiding a kind smile under his mustache. Then he paused for the audience so they could process the most recent chunk of information. “Yes, a lover, a true one. But then came that ridiculous whatever his name was...”

“Still the bitter old man, Thomas. You never got quite over it, did you? I'll come to him, don't you hurry.”

Lucille emptied the remains of the valuable whisky in one sip and let a moment pass before she went on narrating as though she had to put her shuffled thoughts back into place.

“Mind if I tell them about our first night, Thomas?”

Big ol' Tom shook his head no.

“Well, then, but don't you dare interrupt me, you hear me?”

----------------

One night—and I remember it as if it happened yesterday—Momma Ann and Don had just approved my being a fully working member of the Family.

Although I had taken the benefit of an extraordinarily good education in all required fields, I was nervous as hell and shaky as a vibrator. So shaky, actually, that I kept on asking my sisters if they had sedatives for me. All their tries to ease me were in vain.

But to be honest, listening to stories about stinky, knee-walking drunk millionaires cheating on their greasy wives, wasn't really appealing to me.

And then I heard it. Through all my sisters' voices, I heard Momma Ann talk to a customer, “She's new, so be nice to her. But remember, this kind of money lasts for one hour only, so don't waste the little time you have. And don't even think laying your hand on her. I'll rip your balls clean off myself, and I don't even want to think about what Don will do to you. Understood?”

My sisters disappeared to their respective rooms, wishing me good luck with my first. What had Momma Ann just said? Sounded like that dude wasn't exactly swimming in cash, huh? So no filthy millionaire? Just a filthy, probably unwashed, broke-ass old geezer trying to rape me? What a shiny night I was looking forward to. Great! Good girl my ass! Imma quit this job! Aaand he entered my room.

A well-built figure. Young. Working class. Tired.

“G...good eve...ning, sir,” stuttered my jaw.

“Good, evening, madam,” he shyly shot back, almost too low for me to hear.

OK, so there were two of that kind now. One totally useless whore, and a little boy who couldn't even say hello to the bitch he had paid to receive his pleasures from. My turn to try to show some balls, then, right?

I patted the spot beside me on my bed.

“Why don't you close the door, and have a seat here with me, young lad.”

Even more intimidated than before, he did as ordered. Before sitting down, he took off his jacket and hung it over a chair.

“Name's Lucille,” I said, giving him my hand.

“Hi, Lucille. I'm Thomas. Pleased to meet you.”

His handshake was firm and strong, but didn't squeeze my hand. It was the hand of a self-confident man although his appearance proved the contrary. I don't know why, but I just kissed his cheek, obviously startling him.

“I... Listen...” he said, “I know you're forcing yourself because it's your first night, and stuff. But... but... you know... you know... If you don't want to, you don't have to. It's gotta be a tough job, I know. And... and...”

Oh my god... He was so shy. Such a little boy. Not familiar with girls. Taken aback by love, or better: girls trained to fake orgasms.

“Shh... Just c'mere and kiss me for a start.”

His explanation came like a confession. “Look, Lucille. I know you're asking yourself why such a young man is already so desperate to buy himself some fake love. It's just... I work really hard for a living. So hard that I don't really have time to get out. I don't have many friends, you know. For all I know, you're the only one. Girls? Surely not. They're pretty demanding these days, aren't they? So I made up my mind the other day. I decided to save up my money and buy me some love every now and then. It's not the same, but it'll make do.”

Throughout his monologue, his face had passed through what had to be like fifty shades of red or so, starting from slightly blushed all the way to bordeaux. Poor boy was embarrassed. By me? Oh really? I felt true pity for this boy, so I decided to make use of all I had learned during my special education which did not only include the virtues of giving pleasure.

I took his hands between mine and gave them a gentle kiss. He let me do it. I slowly shifted my position towards him, so I could sit right next to him, and take him in my arms. His heat-radiating face slowly regained its natural color while my hands soothingly caressed his back. None of us talked for a while, for no words were needed. Just the mere act of giving someone proximity eased away the discomfort.

“Thank you,” Thomas whispered as we parted. I smiled back at him.

“So what would you like me to do? And before you start badmouthing yourself again, let me tell you that I'm not just a whore. We can just sit here and talk; that is if you're more comfortable with that.”

He agreed, so we started just talking, nothing more—for the moment. We had a great chit-chat about this and that. He turned out to be a well-educated young lad who knew his way around with girls pretty well actually. Hadn't I known he was working so hard, I would have wondered why he'd even consider hanging out with hopeless little whores like me.

The greater part of 'his' hour with me was over when I realized I was resting my head on his shoulder, and his arm was wrapped around me. When had we... Both surprised by this realization, we looked at each other. There were no more boundaries between us save for the few inches separating our lips. They met once, twice, caressed each other, tongues were teasing them.

We parted. Not for long, though; the game started again until our hands were running through our hair and over our backs, and he was on top of me. Even in this situation, he remained the gentleman he had proven to be so far. He wasn't hasty. He wasn't greedy. He was patient and gentle.

I had been trained for this situation, but this here was nothing like training. For the first time, I had a true man's hands roaming all over my body. Caressing me, stroking me, teasing me all over my body, genuinely wanting to devour me. Still, I could tell he wasn't experienced. But so was I... with men.

The funny thing is that it was exactly the other way around than it should be: he was the pleasure giver, and I was the pleasure taker. His hands exploring my skin sent shivers through my body. It released a swarm of butterflies in my belly. This feeling made my hungry little pussy water from anticipation.

Just so it's clear: I wasn't a virgin. My sisters had taken a few precautions for this. However, he was my first man.

I only unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt and pulled it over his head. A manly, exercised body was freed, sculptured by his hard work; four or five scars scattered over his chest and his stomach. Years of hard labor had left their traces on his body.

I could tell from the scent of his skin that he had taken his time to prepare himself for this special night. It had a faint odor of expensive washing lotion and manly perfume. He knew how to use and dose it correctly.

I kissed first his belly button, then slowly traced my way up to his chest using both the tip of my tongue and my lips. His breath took a more elaborate pace as I teased his neck and wandered to his earlobe. His hands found the laces that were holding together my seductive burlesque corsage dress I had chosen for this very night and undid them.

The dress fell off, and I was left with nothing more than my stockings, my panties and this matching pair of garter belts. Thomas was so mesmerized by what he had laid his eyes on that he could hardly move. I pushed him to lay down on the bed and sat on his thighs. I undid his belt and his fly. His pants were easily taken off. The rather bulky bulge in his white briefs gave away his desire for me. All insecurity was forgotten as our most basic needs started taking over.

His briefs slid down his legs ever so easily. I was very grateful to find that my first man had had the courtesy to show up bathed and clean. A big drop of pre-cum came oozing out of his tip. I smeared it over his whole mushroom head until it was nice and slick before I let my tongue trace the underside of his erect member.

My lips formed a ring around his shaft while my tongue teased the very tip. With one hand, I slowly pumped the shaft up and down. With the other, I gently fondled his balls. I had never thought that giving head was such a great turn-on to me, especially as he placed both his hands on the back of my head and softly pushed his cock deeper in my mouth. I took him in balls-deep, and swallowed on his head time and again. His delighted moans encouraged me to keep on going faster, deeper until his shaft pumped his seed deep down my throat, and his body spasmed uncontrollably in his orgasmic high.

As he had regained control over himself, he wasted no time to turn me on my back and to spread my legs apart. He pushed my panties aside and started slowly yet intensely licking my overflowing the soft folds of my pussy.

Had he practiced or was he simply a natural? His tongue found my clit immediately, and flicked it, circled around it, pushed on it... pure ecstasy. He shoved all his tongue up my aching hole, pulled it out, licked my sweet little crevice, shoved his tongue back again and so on and so forth. I'd say my cries were the loudest the Red House had ever heard.

As I felt two of his fingers slowly exploring my cavity to find my g-spot, I knew I wasn't going to last for much longer. His slow but constant and firm strokes with both his fingers and his tongue sent me over the edge effortlessly.

It felt like a river of juices came flowing out of my sweet little snatch, accompanied by a series of loud oh-my-gods.

Thomas stopped his stimulations right after my very climax. He waited for a short instant before he renewed his oral assault. This sent me to the stars again – higher this time. And again, he stopped at the perfect moment and began pleasuring me a brief moment later to make me cum on his face a third time in a row.

I had to stop him from proceeding, for the pleasure started feeling like pain. It felt as if I had developed an acute oversensitivity that faded away during these few minutes Thomas left me to recover from the intensity of my orgasms.

He slid my panties down my legs and threw them on the pile of clothes on the floor. I grabbed a condom in the bed table drawer. His eyes flashed at the sight of the rubber ring. I took great care in rolling it over his newly erect cock.

As I lay on my back again, a few doubts flashed through my mind. There was one question I was about to answer: will it hurt? It was unnecessary since my sisters had taken care of this ominous first time. So what was I afraid of? Nothing! I managed to suppress my bad presentiments and let Thomas crawl over me.

I grabbed his obviously excited shaft and positioned his head right at the entrance of my hungry juicy hole. My pussy was so slick with my juices that he didn't have to apply much pressure. He slid in with ease, balls-deep from his first thrust. Pure pleasure was the expression on his face. New sensations came over me. Never before had I felt so fulfilled and so feminine. Each of his thrusts sent new waves of pleasure radiating from my belly to everywhere in my body.

We remained in this simple missionary position until a mutual orgasm hit us—not for lack of creativity; it was just because we didn't feel the need to change position.

We lay there a while, exhausted. We had a quick exchange about nothing important, really. We both got dressed again, and he left.

The door went shut. My eyes checked the clock above it. I was one and a half hours late. Of course, Momma Ann grounded me for keeping poor boy Thomas for so long and detaining the cash flow. Sex was our business. The more you paid, the more you got. Easy rule. Essential to the survival of the establishment. However, she let it slide for this time because it was my first night, but made it more than clear to me that it was never ever to happen again.

I got used to my job rather quickly. In fact, it's not that hard as one might imagine. It's just a matter of perspective, nothing more, at least as far as I was concerned. The good girl had finally gotten some sort of a reward for her constant sacrifices in life. Yes, it sounds twisted, and it was a job some of you would call lousy, but I had been lucky enough to whore in probably the highest quality brothel around. This meant no bums, no junkies, no filthy, desperate, ugly drunkards. Rich, well-mannered men led astray by their kinky fantasies—exactly what I had been trained for. And some of them were really good lovers, I tell you.

A few weeks passed until Thomas came back to see me again. This time, he had a bunch of red roses with him. Thirteen to be precise. I accepted his apologies for having taken so much time to see me again.

As time passed by, it became our routine. He came by every month or two, brought me a little something, we talked, fucked, and had ourselves a good culinary treat, went to the theater or concert hall—at his expense, of course. Yes, I did abuse his affection towards me, let him spend obnoxious sums for my well-being. Blame me for this. It was my job. The more he consumed within my company, the more money we earned. Easy equation.

But then came that day he confessed his love to me. We had been seeing each other for over three or four years. Sure, there were loads of customers that offered to 'save' us from the 'claws of prostitution', but none of them had ever understood that we were a family. Take someone from their family? No good idea. But in this very case, the proposing customer was one particularly obstinate donkey, know what I mean?

More than once did I have to straighten out to him that I was not to leave the family. Poor boy was crushed to see his beloved girl clinging to her life as a servant of the carnal pleasures.

Then, from one day to another, he was gone. For good, as it seemed. I never forgot him. I never forgot our first night together.

He only showed up thirty years later when I got married to Momma Ann's and Don's first son. Don't ask me how or why it had come to this. I was twenty-five years his senior. He was a strange boy. Choleric. A true tyrant who abused his status as Don's and Momma Ann's son and heir. Not tall at all. A genuine little stick insect Rambo, as Thomas put it so nicely earlier tonight.

We were in love. Both of us. Strange, I know. Why had he chosen me? For that withered beauty I once had been? Surely not for my age. Why had I chosen him? For his impossible temper? He was choleric, yes. No tolerance for nothing. And jealous. Very jealous.

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“Remember when his episode when you asked me for a dance on our wedding day?” Lucille asked, addressing big ol' Tom.

“That surely is an anecdote to remember”, replied the elderly man. “He went totally berserk. Poor guests who had to endure this show.”

“He was never good with hiding his rage, and never even gave a shot at trying to retain it either. He never laid his hands on people though. Sure, he used to leave a pile of shards and a lake of tears behind all the time, but never did he physically hurt people. Not even after he had started drinking.”

“Considering this shitface was right about the height of my knee, he wouldn't have even dared threaten me.”

“Oh stop it, Thomas. You're just jealous, aren't you? Why don't you just do your job and get me another glass of something? I'm empty here.”

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And this is about how far this story goes, dear listeners. Sure I could go rambling on and on about hubby's legendary fits, but that's not really part of this story.

Well, after our wedding, we settled down, and I took Momma Ann's role and became Momma Lulu. So taking new members of our family under my wing was now my job. Momma Ann herself retired to the south of France with Don. They occasionally came over for vacation, visit the Red House or so.

Hubby and I lived a time of ups and downs. Well, mostly downs actually. He had a life of rage. We all feared him although he was so short. I had a life in tears and agony. But we loved each other, however twisted this may sound. Good girl my ass. They say the sacrifices in life give more than they take? Don't ever believe that sort of shit.

Eventually, hubby started drinking. It's because we couldn't have kids he'd always say. My fault. I couldn't have kids. I desperately wanted to have kids, but I couldn't. I was too old. It gave me depressions, it gave me an unbearable feeling of guilt. I was a useless wife.

And so we lived on in our twisted pathetic life until one day his liver couldn't take his drinking anymore. I retired from the business.

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“And now I'm here, old and gray, trying to enjoy my last evening with my forgotten love.”

The audience was silent at first. It took the first listener at least two minutes before he slowly started clapping his hands. Two more joined in. Then Three. Another five or six. The applause spread like fire in dry grass. All present customers were cheering and applauding. Some of them were crying.

“You know, Lulu...” started big ol' Tom “...you could have had a life by my side.”

Lucille threw him a stern glance.

“And where were you when I needed you most?”

Big ol' Tom took her hands in his.

“I'm sorry, Lulu. You know I really am. And you know how much I would love to make this up to you.”

“You know, Thomas.” A tear popped out of the corner of Lucille's eye. “You did make it up to me. You were the only person ever in my life who really listened to me, or took genuine interest in me. Here tonight, I had so many people that opened their hearts to hear my story. It kind of feels like this long-awaited reward for being the good girl over all these years.”

Big ol' Tom caressed Lucille's face that was now covered with tears.

“Lulu, darling, if you're a good person, there will always be someone for whom you're too young to die. What they say is true. You are a good girl, and you are too young to die... for me.”

The bar went silent. Even the thunderstorm seemed to have calmed. Everyone's focus was on these two old people, holding hands on the bar counter. The dim flickering candlelight made their shadows dance.

“Thank you, Thomas,” said Lucille in such a low voice that only he was able to hear it.

The storm had completely faded.

Big ol' Tom kindly requested his customers to go home. Then he took Lucille by her hand and led her to one of the guest rooms.

What happened in that room remains untold.

The next morning, he came out again—alone.