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Hey all...

I know you have commented that my stories are too short. I certainly appreciate that you have enjoyed but also understand that each "chapter" should be longer.

At this stage, I have this addition to load - it is short though and written some time back. Its been a long time since Cassie and I connected. Maybe doing this will connect us and lead to something longer.

Anyway, I am sharing this to let you know what happened to Cassie...

Thanks for your appreciation and patience

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It was later, maybe minutes but more likely hours... Taylor looked around the room. It wasn't much. A bed dominated the view but as this was her "workspace", that was understandable. Of course, it wasn't the only place she undertook her duties. In fact, as Taylor looked about further, she wondered what piece of furniture hadn't been used to earn some money

There was the table. She'd been bent over that or taken on it... the lounge, the chair, the bench. She didn't need to go into the bathroom to remember that everything there had been used too.

Like her...

She was a whore. She knew you could 'pretty up' the word -- prostitute, working girl. But she knew what she was. What she had chosen to be. Life was options and this was hers. Taylor didn't need to look in the mirror to know she looked a disaster. Mascara running like a porn star who had been throat fucked was what she knew she would see...

Why hadn't she chosen that career? After all, if your job is to fuck, maybe you do it safely. She laughed inwardly, knowing being on screen was never an option for her. Not from where she was from. Did that matter now though? Her father was dead, so her shame couldn't affect him.

But what about his shame? Who would carry that? It was a pointless question and Taylor knew it. She would, just like she carried everything else. Maybe that's why she chose to be a whore. A cock doesn't care who you are, doesn't judge you except to make sure you are tight enough to pleasure it...

How much cum had been released in this room? How many men had she been fucked by? How many times had she opened her thighs for some stranger's pleasure? How many times had she been hit, how many bruises had she hidden from the daily world?

Mostly it had been easy... Guys were happy to oblige you by hitting where it didn't show -- well mostly...

There were then the guys that just enjoyed hitting you over and over even as they fucked you. She remembered one john who couldn't keep it hard unless he was hitting. It was just lucky he didn't have much stamina. She'd spent three days in hospital for those five minutes. And she remembered that she couldn't even spend the dollars, they were so covered in blood...

Taylor crawled into her bed... not bothering to go to the place that she could call home if she desired. As darkness began to steal her brain away, she realised this was one of the few times she had actually slept in this bed...

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It was daylight, though Cassie how no idea whether it was morning or afternoon daylight. Her head pounded as her eyes fluttered open. For a moment, she almost didn't recognise her surroundings but then it all flooded back and the sharpness of the memory made Cassie put fingers against her temples, hoping it would help. Of course, it didn't.

Cassie's place... that's where she was. Her workplace. She couldn't believe her thoughts had reverted to her birth name the name the night before. Even going back to her place most nights, Cassie rarely turned off from who she now was but then she had not expected to see Wayne. In fact, she had hoped long ago never to even think his name again. Now he was back. Not just back but he knew where she was.

Cassie walked to the bathroom, her muscles aching from the treatment the night before as well as knowing she had not relaxed during her sleep. Looking in the mirror brought no surprise... the mascara coated her cheeks like a tiny waterfall, though they hid the black circles that she knew would exist beneath the colouring. Haunted eyes looked back at her but something more. It was like they were not her eyes. The colour was identical but something about then made her think they were the eyes of a stranger.

She found her phone, switching it on to learn the time (who carried a watch these days?). As the screen came on, she saw it was mid-afternoon -- she had slept what was left of the night and then most of the day. She rarely slept more than five hours...

The messages started arriving. Three from work -- the day job work -- asking then demanding where she was. Right now, she didn't care. She would lose a day's pay but she didn't care. After all she made more at night anyway.

She found another message. A number she didn't recognise, rather her phone didn't. It simply said "this aint over". The first thing she thought was Wayne never knew punctuation. Of course it was Wayne. Which meant he knew her number even though she had changed it. Changed it to get away from him.

"I guess it didn't work." The words were out before she even realised she spoke them aloud...