It was midway through the spring semester of my sophomore year that I had one of the most memorable weekend experiences of my career as a prostitute.
By this time, I had learned how to play the game for college grant money. Because my father had died in the service, and my mom was incarcerated, I was considered an orphan, and entitled to a fairly significant sum of federal money to attend college.
That is, Lyn Gibson was considered an orphan, and without a legal guardian. By this time, I had learned how to live dual identities, and had become quite comfortable in both roles.
As Sophie, I could be a true wanton slut, the raving whore known far and wide for her sexual prowess. As Lyn, I could be a quiet, serious student, a nice girl who came to class every day, took copious notes, made good grades and didn't say boo to anyone.
Where I grew up isn't far from the Missouri River, on the south side of that wide, muddy stream. Columbia is on the north bank, and that made it easy for me to make certain that our business stayed oriented away from Columbia. I wanted as little chance as possible of someone at college recognizing me as Sophie.
Because Uncle Bill liked to account for where "our" money was going, I continued to use that for my college tuition and fees, and the grant money I received from the government I quietly put into an interest-bearing savings account at a bank in Columbia.
At the time, I simply thought of it as building a nest egg for when I graduated. As it turned out, it practically saved my life.
I guess it's a fair question to ask why, if I was getting federal grant money to attend college, did I stay in the prostitution business with my Uncle Bill? After all, that was supposed to be reason for me to get into the business in the first place.
I could have left him, used the grant money for college, and had a normal life as a normal person doing the things normal college students do - things like concerts and ball games, all of which I missed out on.
I know I've asked myself that question many times in the years since I left Missouri. I think the answer is fairly complicated, and has a lot to do with my psychological makeup.
For one thing, the money was very seductive. We made a boatload of money, and Bill and I both came to appreciate what it could do for us.
For another, I believed what Bill and others had always said about me, that I was born to be a whore. I was simply living down to everyone's expectations.
Still another answer was that the people I encountered while working for Uncle Bill were, for better or worse, my entire social life. I felt much more comfortable with the farmers and mechanics I dealt with at Bill's Place than I did with the snooty college types I encountered at Mizzou.
And, finally, there was the sex. I was getting more good sex than a typical 19-year-old has any right to get. True, a lot of it was ho-hum, wham-bam fucking, but a lot of it was really hot, and, frankly, I enjoyed it. I was getting my deep-seated sexual needs fulfilled in a very big way, and that would have been a difficult thing to give up at that point in my life.
At any rate, as 1989 turned into 1990, and my scarlet reputation grew, we began to take on more and more weekenders, those special events I mentioned earlier.
For a thousand dollars, you could buy my services for the entirety of Saturday and into Sunday. This was where we really got into the big time, and made some serious bucks.
Actually, it was Mr. Charley, the sheriff, who started turning some upper-echelon business our way for these events. The weekenders were a good way for the upscale types to buy the services of a whore without being seen at an out-of-the-way, redneck beer joint like Bill's Place.
A thousand dollars was chump change to some of these people. It was worth it for them to buy a girl who would come to their home, or anywhere else they wanted, who would do anything they told her to do, all night long - and I do mean anything - and who could be depended on to be discreet.
As I've said, I was a very good whore. I was always clean and healthy, the benefit of monthly visits to a Jeff City gynecologist, and I had a perfectly filthy mind. There wasn't much I wasn't willing to do, and as word spread, my services came to be much in demand.
Over the four years I was a whore, I spent weekends with bankers, lawyers, county supervisors, the mayor of one nearby town, law-enforcement officers, school administrators, anyone whose reputation would take a big hit if it got out that they were using the services of a prostitute.
And it wasn't just men, either. I spent a lot of weekends with upper-class women who were either closet lesbians or who were just adventurous and wanted to experience sex with another woman. I had been trained by some of the best lezzies around when I'd been at the juvenile school in Oklahoma, and I knew how to drive a woman crazy with lust.
Then there were the couples, and this was where I had the experience I'm about to relate. Earl Johnson, and his wife Jeanine, were an older couple in Jeff City, and they proved to be two of the kinkiest - and best - clients I ever had.
Earl was a prominent banker and Jeanine was an elementary school principal. He was about 50, and she was in her early 40s. Earl was somewhat portly, a barrel-chested fellow slightly under six feet tall, with brown hair that was slightly receding in front.
Jeanine had some sort of ethnic background, Filipino or maybe Native American, but whatever it was, it gave her gorgeous, exotic looks, with huge dark eyes, full lips and thick, straight jet-black hair that she wore to the middle of her back. She was what you would call chunky, but she wasn't gobby fat, in that she carried her weight well, and she was possessed of the biggest, most succulent tits I've ever seen.
It was a bitterly cold, gray mid-February day when I drove to their large, gated home on the outskirts of the city. Jeanine greeted me warmly about 3 o'clock that afternoon, escorted me in and introduced me to her husband.
She was dressed fairly casually, in a long skirt and a knit shirt with a low neck that revealed an ample amount of her stunning cleavage. I had dressed for warmth, in a wool sweater, with a tight, long-sleeved T-shirt underneath, jeans, boots, and my long coat.
Mizzou was playing a basketball game on TV at that moment, and Earl was apparently a big supporter of the university, so nothing was going to happen until after the game. That afforded us a chance to relax, have a few drinks, some light snacks and a little chance to get acquainted.
As always, I was very guarded in what information I divulged, and I certainly didn't want Earl finding out I was a student at the university. As far as they were concerned, I was just a poor, country girl who worked as a whore to make a living for myself, and my man, which, I guess, was pretty close to the truth. I don't know if they ever figured out that Bill was my uncle, or whether they thought he was my husband or boyfriend. Either way, I never told them the nature of our relationship, and they never asked.
After the game, which the Tigers won, Earl called me over and had me sit in his lap. We kissed, and I felt the avid gaze of Jeanine as he deftly slid his hand up under my sweater and cupped my tits, which were still encased in the tight T-shirt, but with no bra underneath.
In the course of our conversation, I had learned that they did this every so often, when they wanted to put a charge into their sex life. They actually loved each other quite a lot, but Jeanine was very bisexual, and Earl had a huge weakness for young girls. So they would solicit girls that they could spend some time with together, to allow both of them to indulge their desires at the same time, without cheating on each other.
As I did a lap dance on Earl, I felt his cock swelling in his pants, and I began to get real impressed, because it was obvious this man had a bulge to reckon with. But before I could get very far, he set me aside, called his wife over and got up.
"Why don't you two start getting comfortable while I go out and bring in some wood," Earl said jovially. "I think a little fun in front of the fireplace is just what the doctor ordered."
I walked slowly across the room, to where Jeanine lay back on the sofa in a very seductive pose. My mouth actually watered at the thought of getting at her juicy tits.
I guess because I've always been small up front, women with big tits have always fascinated me. Even today, years after my last lesbian encounter, I still get a little twinge in my groin when I see a woman who is showing a generous amount of cleavage.
I used to love to suck the tits of a large-breasted woman, trying to stuff as much of the voluminous flesh in my mouth as possible, and that's what I wanted to do with Jeanine.
I sat next to her on the sofa and melted into her arms. Our mouths met, and I lost myself in her fulsome lips, our tongues slashing together. Instinctively, my hands gravitated to her tits and I felt her fat nipples stiffen as I caressed them through her shirt.
My pussy swelled and moistened as our hands roamed over each other's body. Abruptly, Jeanine pulled my sweater over my head and tossed it aside. Her eyes glowed as she saw my hard little tips poking through the thin material of my undershirt.
About then, Earl came in with an armload of wood, and stacked some up on the fireplace grate. He stopped briefly to admire us as we kissed again, seemingly oblivious to his presence. Then he walked back out for another load of wood. I think he wanted to bring in enough so that he could keep the fire going for awhile without having to go back out for more wood, because it was really, really cold that night.
Now I was sitting back, with the older woman hovering over me. It was pretty clear to me at that point that she was the one who was going to be calling the shots, at least for awhile, and I was more than willing to let her do so.
She pulled the T-shirt over my head, tossed it aside and pressed her soft hands on my tiny tits. My nipples were hard as rocks, both from anticipation and the slight chill in the room.
