The House of the Rising Star

Veronica was a top producer at one of the most elite brothels in Nevada. Sometimes men would wait several hours for the opportunity to see her, ignoring the propositions of less popular girls. This natural beauty had a seductive aura about her, an asset that nullified any need to flaunt or strut to get attention. She dressed conservatively for a prostitute, disdaining flash in favor of secretarial styles with a sexy flair. This perceptive saleswoman had figured out the game very well. The money was pouring in. She was depositing bundles of cash into hidden offshore accounts, saving for her future. The girl had come a long way in a short time.

Two years earlier, the bottom had fallen out. Ronnie's twins had turned twenty, moving away to take jobs on the East Coast. Soon after that, the simmering rage she had felt for years toward her husband boiled over in an altercation in which he experienced the full scope of her anger. His broken nose and jaw took months to heal. He moved away to Tasmania, taking all the money, leaving her with a pile of debt for which her lawyer told her she was now solely responsible. A month later, a California wildfire blazed through her town, turning her uninsured house with all her belongings into an ash heap.

The beleaguered woman ended up homeless on the streets of Los Angeles for two months, scraping by in a hopeless state of fear until a women's shelter took her in. The accommodations were a closet-size room with a bed, but it was a big step up from a sleeping bag in the woods. The social workers at the shelter also helped her find work at a local fast-food joint. Although it wasn't her dream job, she knew she had to take things one step at a time to get back on her feet. Sometimes the work was stressful when the restaurant got busy. While working the front counter near the end of a long shift one night, Ronnie had an unhappy customer at her register.

"I picked this up at the drive-up window fifteen minutes ago. You see anything wrong?" The angry woman slammed a burger down, splattering the bun and the toppings around the counter, getting ketchup on Ronnie's uniform.

"It looks like a Whizzy Burger with a bite taken out of it."

"I know it's a Whizzy Burger, you moron! I ordered it with no fucking onions because I'm allergic to onions. I could have gotten very sick. I want my money back and a free meal. Do you understand me, dumbass?"

"Yes, I understand you perfectly, ma'am." Veronica scooped the toppings into a pile, putting them back on the burger. She then picked it up and rubbed it in the woman's face.

All hell broke loose. The cops came, and Ronnie was fired. The manager sympathized, but his hands were tied; there was no way he could overlook what she had done. While storming out, she smashed her fist into the exit door, cracking the glass. Seething with frustration, the frantic unemployed girl walked halfway to the shelter before stopping to sit on a concrete slab in a strip mall parking lot. She put her head in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably for ten minutes.

When Veronica raised her head back up, the first thing that caught her eye was the red neon light in one of the storefronts proclaiming: 'Finnlander Sauna & Massage.' Beneath it was another set of lights announcing: 'Open Til Midnight Every Night.' Ronnie stared at them for a long minute as if they were a lighthouse on a dark stormy night at sea.

The owner, Charlene, answered the door. "Hello, what can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if there are any openings?"

"For a massage?"

"No, job openings. I'm looking for work."

"I see. Have you ever worked in a massage parlor before?"

"No, but I've had plenty of experience. I was just stupid enough to always give it away for free."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-five." It was a lie. Veronica was forty-two, but she figured it was best to fudge, knowing she could get away with it.

"Hmm, well, you could pass for thirty." Charlene was spinning the truth a bit too.

"Thank you."

"Are you in any kind of trouble?"

"Plenty, but not with the law."

The parlor owner was getting some good vibes. She knew the type of girl that would bring in business, and she sensed that Ronnie was a diamond in the rough. "You know what we do here, right?"

"Not exactly, but I think I'll figure it out pretty quickly."

Charlene smiled. "I'll tell you what, honey, you come in tomorrow at three and work until midnight. I'll give you a tryout. If it works out, I'll hire you. Sound good?"

"I'll be here."

"Very good. And uh, wear something a little sexier than a Whiz Burger uniform with ketchup stains, would you?"

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you very much. I'll see you tomorrow afternoon."

.................................

The next day Ronnie turned seven customers, making $850 in tips. The seven included two regulars that Charlene had called in "to try out a new girl." The glowing feedback she got from the two was enough to convince her to keep the newbie on. Veronica had a job.

The new masseuse showed up to work the next thirty days straight, sometimes doing twelve-hour shifts. She was determined to work hard, to make as much money as possible to get her out of the hole she was in. Another motivating factor was that she liked the work, not just the pay. Ever since her teen years, she had fantasized about using her sexual powers to make men pay for her beauty and talents. She liked being on a pedestal, refining her style and psychology to attract more men who could afford her. Selling sex at a maximum profit was an enjoyable challenge. Most of her clientele were gentlemen. There were a few rude and crude customers, but they soon found out that Ronnie demanded professional respect. She knew how to put a jerk in his place.

The majority of the customers were there for a "happy ending" massage, a rubdown with a handjob. It was a quick thrill for them. After paying the house fee of $40 for a half-hour, they would lie face down on the table while Ronnie massaged their backs. After fifteen minutes, she would tell them to flip over. At that point, they usually started copping feels and groping, a signal they wanted more. The minimum she would accept was a $50 added tip to be handy, $100 for a blowjob, $150 for full service wearing a condom. Added extras cost more, of course, and Veronica was becoming adept at upsells. One generous client who quickly developed a yen for her charms came in weekly to satisfy his kink. Ronnie gladly led him around on a collar and leash, even feeding him dried dog food from a bowl after he paid her $300 training fee. These select clients paid a house fee of $60 for an hour.

As the owner of the business, Charlene rarely did massage herself. She managed the details, paid off the cops, and took care of the seven girls working the parlor. She took a liking to Ronnie right away, taking her under her wing, teaching her the art of making good in the world's oldest profession. There was often downtime during the day when the two would talk.

"Many people think that guys who pay for it are losers. Nothing could be further from the truth. Most of them are very successful. They have disposable income to spend on their pleasures. Respect them for that. Butter them up with flattery, but don't overdo it. Make them feel like they have earned the right to enjoy themselves in this way. They love that. Empathize, give them understanding. If they're married, give them what their wives aren't giving them."

"The key to making real money in this business, Ronnie, is developing regular customers who come back to see you and only you time after time. When you get your business going, you will be making eighty percent of your money from them. Treat them special. Make them feel like they're not paying for it while you have your hand in their pockets. Seduce their minds. Show them you understand their needs, and they will want to pay you for it. It's Sales 101, honey. It works on Madison Avenue, and it works in a massage parlor. Make them want you so bad they can't wait to give you their money."

"I've already got a few like that."

"I've noticed. You're a smart girl. You don't want to do this forever, but if you put the effort in, you can make a lot in a short time."

"That's what I have in mind."

...............................

After a few months, Veronica decided to make the phone call she had dreaded ever since the bottom fell out in her life. She had been too ashamed to let her sister Emily know how down and out she was. They loved each other dearly and were the best of friends, but there was always a competitive edge to their relationship. Emie had bought a business outside Reno several years ago, turning it into a huge success. Ronnie could not bear the thought of telling her sister she had been living in a shelter and working in a massage parlor. But now that she was back on her feet again, the revelations would be easier to make.

"Why didn't you call sooner? I've been worried sick about you!"

"I know, I know. I'm sorry, Sis. I just needed some time to turn things around on my own. I'm getting an apartment soon. I'm making good money now."

"What are you doing?"

Veronica hesitated before answering. "Oh fuck. All right, look, I'm working in a massage parlor. I didn't want to tell you, but there it is."

There was a long silence on the phone before Emily started laughing hysterically.

"What the hell is so funny?"

"How many cocks do you suck every day?"

"Fuck you, Emie. I don't need your shit. I'm doing what I have to do for now. Why do you have to be an asshole about it?"

"Ronnie, calm down. Remember I told you I bought a ranch three years ago that's been doing well?"

"Yeah."

"Do you know what the name of the ranch is?"

"How the fuck should I know?"

"It's The Horse and Bull Ranch."

"So? What the hell is that?"

"It's the finest whorehouse west of the Mississippi River."

.......................

The bus ride from LA to Reno took eighteen long hours, followed by an hour taxi ride from the station to The Horse and Bull. It was a large sprawling house on a former cattle ranch that had gone bankrupt. The cows didn't thrive grazing on the vegetation in the Nevada desert.

The sisters tearfully hugged after four years of separation. The two of them had a lot to catch up on. They talked through the night, putting down a couple of bottles of good wine, laughing, and crying while sharing stories of their lives. Even though Emily was her younger sister, Veronica looked up to her. She was always the one who took the lead, who was willing to step up and take risks. Ronnie admired that.

Eventually, they got down to the matter of business.

"How much were you making in the massage parlor?"

"Three to four thousand a week, sometimes more."

"You should be able to double that here. You'll have to fuck your brains out. It's work, but if you get the right mindset, you can make it fun. And you'll never stop loving the money. We get many wealthy clients coming in who are willing to pay top dollar for their fantasy trips. Some are high rolling gamblers. We also attract many Japanese businessmen who have fetishes for white girls and lots of Mormons who come over the border from Utah to fill their unholy desires."

"I like the sound of that."

"I don't often work the floor nowadays. In the beginning, I did, but now it's hard to find time to do anything but manage the place. I'm going to stick with this a few more years, then take the money and run. You should too, Sis. You don't want to go too long with it as it could screw you up psychologically over the long haul."

"I believe it. Yeah, I want to make a pile and get out too."

"Good. I'll also show you how to avoid the taxman. It isn't too difficult. You earn your money fucking, so you can't let those pricks fuck you for free."

.............................

Within a few months, Ronnie had established herself as the rising star at the ranch. She turned the usual one-time tourist tricks, the curious locals, and the johnnies who could afford a once-a-year thrill, but most of her money came from a stream of repeating regulars. The fat wallets kept coming back again and again to see her. She gave them what they wanted and made them give her more than they wanted to. It was a system that worked well, especially for her.

One early regular who fell quickly into her web asked if she could talk to him with a German accent while they had sex.

"Well, hey honey, I can do much better than that if you like because Ich spreche fließend Deutsch."

He lit up like a Christmas tree when he heard her speak in the language that turned his crank. He tipped an extra $100 when the California girl whispered German obscenities into his ear as he orgasmed. The next time in, he brought a full black SS uniform complete with a swastika armband for his newfound fraulein hooker to wear. The client was thrilled when she took out a riding crop to beat him, as was the sadistic mistress of ceremonies when her tip climbed to $500. One month he came in three times every week, always leaving in a euphoric glassy-eyed trance.

Late one summer afternoon, Emily called Ronnie aside. "There's a customer who noticed you the other day when he was here. You were in the lounge trying to hustle those Australians with strange accents. This guy wants to see you but only under certain conditions."

"What might those be?"

"He doesn't want you to see him, so you will be blindfolded, sitting on a stool naked when he walks in. He only wants to touch you, nothing more. You will not take off the blindfold until he leaves. He has a religious fetish, so he wants you to wear this." Emie dropped a sterling silver cross on a chain into her sister's hand. "He's been around before, he seems harmless, but I'm not fond of the blindfold bit. I told him if he tries anything off-center, I'll be in with a baseball bat. Do you want to do him?"

"How much is he paying?"

"$1000."

"Yes."

Veronica sat on the stool, naked except for the blindfold, chain, and cross, waiting for her mystery client to come in. The squeaky door announced his arrival. She sat still, wondering how this would play out. He moved close to her; she could hear his slightly labored breathing. Nothing happened. She did not know how much time had gone by, but it was house policy that someone would knock on the door after an hour. It felt creepy sitting there quietly with no activity at all. Near the end of the hour, she felt his fingertips brush lightly on the back of her right hand, resting on her thigh. A moment later, he left. She waited a few minutes before taking off the blindfold. The first thing she saw was the $200 tip on the coffee table.

"How did it go?"

"A little strange, but I'd do it again for the money."

"You probably will. He said he'd be back."

................................

After a short time at the ranch, Ronnie became good friends with Keisha, another gal in high demand at The Horse and Bull. She was from Nairobi, Kenya. Her motto was: "I'm blacker than black, and if you come down my track, you will be coming back!" The two girls often shared stories, exchanging trade secrets over glasses of wine in the early morning hours.

Keisha had a proposal for Ronnie. "I got this Japanese cat coming to see me for a four-hour gig on Saturday night. He likes the way I abuse him. He also likes to watch me bump and grind with white girls. He's a big shot at some car company. Would you like to join us for the first hour?"

"Are you squeezing him good?"

"Like a pipsqueak, baby! You know I never let them get away cheap."

"I'll be there."

.........................

Two hours before the scheduled appointment with Keisha, Veronica sat blindfolded on the chair again. This time, he breathed heavily before caressing her lightly over much of her body. Ronnie again felt a little strange but went with the flow. She made herself think about how much she was making for merely sitting there while he touched her. Several times he rubbed the silver cross before touching her neck. She wondered if there was a way to increase the liveliness of the scene.

"Is there anything you..."

Before she could finish, he put his hand over her lips, preventing her from finishing the question. A few minutes later, he walked out. When Veronica took the blindfold down, she saw $300 on the table. She grabbed the money before getting ready for the session with her African friend.

Ronnie had had sex with a woman one time before on a hiking expedition in the Grand Canyon when she was twenty-one. A beautiful Navajo girl had shared four peyote pods with her while they camped on an outcrop overlooking the Colorado River. It was a magical experience. The Native chick was usually quiet and reserved, but not when Veronica had her tongue on her button. An embarrassed group leader had to interrupt as he thought someone in the tent was having a seizure.

The Kenyan courtesan was waiting near the foot of the brass bed when her lightly tanned California counterpart walked into the room. The anxious Japanese client sitting on the chair in the corner was smoking a cigarette with a look of frenzied anticipation on his face. No one spoke. Keisha motioned Veronica to come close. The tall black goddess bent forward to press her lips against her partner's, immediately spreading them apart with a forceful plunge of her talented tongue. Ronnie was stunned, not expecting the eruption of feelings that jolted her body. A prostitute is an actress putting on a show for paying customers, but this was no talent tryout. Keisha was coming at her with a genuine passion, a desire that Ronnie instinctually reciprocated. Within minutes the two women were locked in an erotic duel, forgetting their work, diving deeply into the throes of each other's needs.

They moved to the bed, expending energy that filled the room with moaning and heavy breathing. This rumble was not lady love, a soft display of the feminine natures of two sensual women; this was hard-driving sex between two assertive females strutting their stuff. Keisha, the taller, stronger, and more primal of the two, sought to be the aggressor, but Ronnie responded to each maneuver with fire, not submission. It was a competitive struggle for dominance, with both women committed to winning. Their muscles swelled as their hands gripped and groped, squeezing and pulling with fingernails digging into flesh. Keisha ripped the front of Veronica's dress open, forcing her to retaliate by yanking the black girl's one-piece bodysuit down to her hips.

The sexual warfare continued with the combatants wrestling on the bed, twisting and turning, each trying to get into a take-charge position, but neither would surrender. Their sweat-soaked bodies glistened in the red light of the brothel boudoir.

At length, Keisha got the upper hand, climbing on top, pinning Ronnie's hands to the bed. The African Empress looked into the white girl's eyes with a triumphant gaze of respect for her energetic lover. They smiled at each other.

"Don't move."

Keisha put on a strap-on she had pulled from a dresser. Ronnie was about to get fucked by a woman, a new experience for her. The thought hit her that this was Keisha's plan all along, but the battle for topping rights had increased the scene's intensity. She glanced into the corner where the Japanese businessman had a look of paralytic shock on his face. He was getting his money's worth.

Keisha came back to the bed. "Spread 'em, bitch!"

Veronica opened her legs wide. She immediately felt the mounted seven-inch glass dildo sliding into her. Keisha looked into her eyes. Ronnie felt their mystical power, surrendering to the authoritative dynamic of this more experienced harlot. Keisha screwed her with strokes that were more controlled and deliberate than a man's. Reaching up, the ivory-skinned hustler fondled her partner's beautiful black breasts as the tension built up inside her. When Ronnie's eyes closed, her Kenyan lover reached down to massage her clit while increasing the speed and depth of the strokes. The Caucasian recipient exploded instantly into a mind-bending orgasm that rocked her system head to toe. She screeched in high pitches that made the girls down the hall in the lounge giggle. One customer asked: "When will the girl who made those sounds be available?"