School for Whores

Mom was a successful business woman. Mom kept a Whorehouse. It was where I grew up. She taught me most everything I know about business. How to write a development application, and business plan, how to screen clients, how to maximise profits, work with the tax office and best of all how to be ethical and have fun.

What Mom didn't need to teach me was how to be a dyke. That came naturally. She only employed lesbians. Less trouble that way. No romantic entanglements with the clients. She didn't even mind when their interludes with each other turned sour. In Mom's efficient way she dealt with it: "Sort it out, or get out!" she'd say. She always made the women responsible for their own behaviour. So I always had plenty of strong women to emulate.

In school they used to have Mother and Daughter Days, or Career Women Days, Take Your Daughter To Work Days. They were big on role modelling, and Mom and I used to laugh about it a lot. We'd imagine Mom taking work experience students - we'd look through the Year Book and pick out likely candidates. One or two Prom Queens from my high school did become trusted working girls. One of them was my first lover . . . I laughed like crazy when Renee told me she was packing a dildo under her prom gown and poked it towards her dance partner, Raymond Grotty, who fled the dance floor. The other, Cherry-lee defied her girly name and wore a tuxedo to the dance. Took Yvette Livingston as her partner. No one knew up till then. It was her Coming Out Ball. Had her glossy, curly black locks shorn at Peterson's Barbershop that morning. Cherry-lee worked summers and college vacations, returning from her Eastern fine arts college each semester break.

One whole summer long, whenever Renee was off work, we fucked and fucked - on the big red velvet covered bed, on the soft carpet, in the spabath, in the shower, slammed against the wall, straddling the chair, upside down on the sofa, face down/ass up over my study desk - all in my bedroom suite and ensuite. I never got a tan that summer but I did learn how to ride-a-buck-horse and how to use ping pong bats for things other than table tennis. Mom had to install soundproofing - the clients were starting to expect more animated noise for their fuck-buck. Mom always used to say "Better to have you rutting at home where I know you are safe, than spreading your legs and wiggling your bare ass in places unknown."

Mom made a lot of money, and so did her whores. The girls commanded top price, and mom never exploited them. She always thought I'd follow her into the biz, but I was convinced my talents lay elsewhere. Oh, don't get me wrong, plenty have called me "whore". I'd just never taken money for sex. I would grimace at the thought of men touching my body, though I have several close (mainly gay) male friends. And I loved sharing my body with other women so much I never thought to charge. Unlike Mom's girls I was privileged not to need to earn my living fucking. I could live to fuck, rather than fuck to live.

I went away to Art School to study photography. I wanted to become a sought-after porn (oh, sorry, erotic) photographer. Don't get me wrong. Women only. My shutter wouldn't close when there was a prick in the pic. My Box Brownie only flashed for cunt.

At college I lived in a group house for women. Not exactly a sorority, but a large converted old house with many bedrooms. I quickly recognised that what was happening was so similar to life at home, I was comforted by the familiarity. The only difference was my housemates weren't charging money. Many were struggling to pay college tuition fees. Others lived on beans and toast, too impoverished to do much more than stagger from home to school and back. Some gave away sex for a night out with a likely lad. Oh, they called it dating.

It troubled me to see my sisters caught in this trap and I fretted about it aloud to Mom whenever I visited home. Here was I, no money worries, studying what I loved, and fucking whom I pleased because she turned me on at the time, not for the sake of preferments - dinners, movies and visits to country estates, enduring the agony of 'meeting the family' on holidays.

Mom wondered why with all my experience around the Game I didn't get my college mates organized. She thought it mad to give away sex for such miserly reward. She never could stand a woman selling herself short. She offered to help.

Mom left Renee in charge and came to stay with me for a time. She managed a sub-let from a girl who had left to pay the ultimate price for being kept: marriage. Mom had become a Den Mother! One by one she met and made friends with all the girls in that house. After several weeks the college announced that it was facing a million dollar deficit and was charging a levy next semester on top of normal tuition. That threw the majority of the girls into complete panic. One particularly talented girl, Polly, was sure she would have to leave. Polly was a painter and destined to win major awards around the world. But in her student days she was a scholarship winner, eking out an existence on the miserly stipend afforded her. Polly had more than once declared "I'll have to sell my cherry to stay here!" Which was a bit of hyperbole as her cherry had been plucked many years ago, and Polly was an enthusiastic and voracious bisexual, often taking part in threesomes of any combination. Mind you, I had never sucked her pip myself, as I don't appreciate bloke-aroma; even the faintest tinge makes my nose quiver and sneeze.

Well, Mom was ready to help. Polly was her first recruit in that house. What Mom soon realised was, though I was screwing dykes like there was some sort of war effort going on, there were more lemons in the college bars than met the eye. Women college professors came in three varieties: ineluctably straight (the smallest group), closeted or curious, and out. Category 2 comprised about 55%, meaning a huge, untapped clientele of frustrated lizzies.

Pretty soon, the poverty days were far behind the girls of 1145 Main Street. A root was worth more than a chicken dinner, though payment-in-kind was still accepted in some circumstances. Girls could also entertain their own boy and girlfriends, the latter preferred. In the early days, Mom had to compromise on that, and accept the heterosexuals' preference, but as time wore on, and the reputation, and popularity, of the house grew, she switched the balance, until the perfect 100-0 split was achieved.

Polly proved to be the perfect second in charge, and when Mom went back home and only paid us occasional visits, Polly kept the bordello humming. One aspect of Mom's training was, that as this was a student house, a successor always had to be trained. Polly took this task on with enthusiasm, and as she swung to being exclusively a pillow-muncher, she delighted in her rigorous "interviews".

I thrived, and graduated with honours in photography. My final study for solo exhibition was of female homoerotic sexuality. Well, that's what it was officially called. Later I sold the shots to underground lesbian porn mags and gave the proceeds to my housemates as a graduation gift.

I went on to be the famous photographer I had always dreamed of being. I branched into cinematography, and often filmed myself and lovers as we fucked and ate and lived and loved. I won a prize in a major lesbian film festival for a prolonged sequence involving fruit and body cavities. Some with cream, others without. My photographs hung on the walls of galleries and museums worldwide. I was lauded in Berlin and Sydney, I had lovers in San Francisco and Barcelona.

Then two pieces of news reached me simultaneously: Mom was very ill, and would need constant care. Of course, we could afford nurses and topflight caregivers, but I wanted to give my Mom as much in return as she had given me. As well, my old college was struggling. State funding was being withdrawn as censorship tightened in the New Dawning of Puritanism of the early 21st century. I had sponsored endowments and bequests for talented lesbian artists, and the Moral Police ordered they be stopped, or funding withdrawn.

I flew home and met the College President, a vivacious woman about my own age, give or take a few years. She was wearing leather, Uma-Thurman-as-Emma-Peel style. In her hand she held a riding crop. Her ruby red lips, large blue-black eyes and jet-black gelled-crop of hair. All of which helped me immediately recognize Cherry-lee!

Within minutes of our first meeting in 20 years, we were doing what we both loved best, exploring another dyke. Every crack and crevice was explored, every method of sensual arousal was employed. I unzipped Cherry-lee's leather catsuit to the top of her bush and pushed aside the upper part, exposing her large, firm tits. I took each in one hand, weighing them like one might cantaloupes, squeezing gently, and then drawing my fingers together around her delicious nipples. Cherry-lee arched her head back, thrusting her mound forward, accentuating the curves of her hips. I extricated her arms from the tight leather of the catsuit, and pulled the garment down to her hips. I held her hips, and dropped to my knees, diving my face into her bush, and pushing the leather down past her ass and cunt towards her knees. It was more difficult than anticipated shifting it over her curvaceous butt, so I shuffled around behind her and pulled it down with both hands, clasping her cheeks in my hands, spreading my fingers, and using my thumbs to stroke her asscrack and hole. She dropped forward from the waist, pushing her lovely ass closer to my face. I spread her cheeks and using broad strokes, trailed my tongue along her delicious cavern. I was able to hook it under her and continue long languid strokes along her glistening, wet slit and up her ass towards the small of her back.

I was now cupping her cunt with one hand, the other fondling her dangling tits. I entered her with my fingers, and she bucked and came, all so fast! This was going to be a great afternoon.

All of a sudden I felt hands on my butt, around my waist, and there were Yvette Livingston, and Polly. I broke off what I was doing, spun Cherry-lee around, and we all started talking at once, asking questions, catching up…a regular Old Dykes Homecoming Week.

Later, much later, after we all sated our lusts and fulfilled some decades-old fantasies with each other, we talked and planned and laughed and agreed our plans.

Mom is now much recovered, but still lives with me. Renee and her partner, a boi-ish young babydyke called Rosalia run the whorehouse back in my home town. They have diversified into Lesbian Escort Services, and that is a core part of their business. As the expansion of business opportunities proceeded during the 1990s, many unaccompanied dykes came through town on business, and sought night-time company.

In college town, the old women's house on Main Street is thriving. Mom had bought it years ago; it is self-managing, as the apprentice system Mom instigated flourished. Two mature aged graduate students occupy a two-room suite overlooking Main Street. Yvette Livingston, Cherry-lee's Prom date, and Polly met in a fertility clinic three years ago. While neither had yet been successful in her quest for parenthood, they are still positive that it will happen.

Me? I bought the college. Mom and I share a traditional ivy-covered stone cottage on campus, that is when we are not attending retrospectives, exhibitions, colloquiams, or orgies in far-away places.