WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design: D.B. Story

Hooker, Wife, For Life © 2009 D.B. Story

eXcessica publishing

All rights reserved

Hooker, Wife, For Life

By D. B. Story

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A special thanks to Rocket Ralph, Mulligan, and VW for their excellent and much appreciated proofreading.

Chapter 1—HOOKER

As I rode in the back of the limousine that smelled of stale cigarettes trying to fight their way through the overpowering air freshener squirted liberally about, I wondered just what I was doing here. The bright lights of Las Vegas and my hotel on The Strip had faded behind me, to be replaced by this dark highway. I still had another forty-five minutes to go.

Prostitution is illegal in Las Vegas and surrounding Clark County. While that doesn’t mean it isn’t available, what you’ll find there is clandestine, unregulated, and not always safe.

For legal, regulated, licensed and inspected sex services you need to travel at least seventy-five miles into the next county. The various houses and ranches out there have banded together to solve this problem by offering “free” limousine service to and from your hotel. It’s not quite as altruistic as it sounds, because you’re quite a captive audience once you arrive at the other end, but it sounds alluring nonetheless.

You’re not quite a complete captive, since these establishments tend to clump together. Once you’ve arrived, you can often walk between several of them, sometimes just by crossing the parking lot. But then again, I wouldn’t be surprised if all the ones that close weren’t owned by the same person—or mob. That’s how things often work out here.

Now I don’t normally do this kind of thing. In fact, let me think. I’ve done this exactly—zero—times before. What I’m looking for I feel I’m pretty unlikely to find in any whorehouse.

But last night I’d been sitting next to these two guys about my age at the bar while one of them absolutely raved to his buddy about this girl—Star—that he’d had that afternoon. He kept insisting how his buddy should go back with him the next afternoon for a return engagement.

“One in a million,” the man had enthused as his buddy nodded. “And I ought to know!”

By the time they got up and left for the Sports Book, I felt I knew every hair and pore on Star’s unseen body. If she was a fraction of what this man was claiming...

Well, here I am in the limousine, about to find out for myself.

* * * *

I’m glad I’m the only passenger this ride. I wasn’t looking for any discussions about what I was intending to do next. Once the driver, an older man probably supplementing his Social Security with a little off-the-books income, realized I wasn’t in a talkative mood, he left me alone.

Soon enough we pulled off the highway into a gravel-covered parking lot with brightly lit one-story buildings on three sides. In addition to their brightly floodlit fronts, each had windows adorned with white lace curtains illuminated by red light bulbs, and no way to see inside. Perhaps the windows were façades only, which likely matched what one should expect to find inside. The names on their signs left no doubts as to their business.

I was dropped off in front of the establishment I’d named in my call. With nothing else to do, I went inside.

The interior decor was overpowering RED! Red carpet. Red upholstery. Red wallpaper. Red lampshades. And mirrored ceilings that reflected the red everywhere else. I wondered just who felt the customers wouldn’t get the point without this reinforcement.

The entrance opened up onto a typical parlor. This is where the customers meet the girls, and maybe have a drink or two from the bar down one side of the room. Alcohol is a surefire method to loosen inhibitions—and wallets.

I took one look around the room and ran for the bar. That gave me an excuse for being there, while letting me put my back to the room. The problem being that I was the only customer at the moment. That meant that I had the undivided attention of every pair of eyes, and the sudden smiles, whenever I looked back into the room. It was intimidating.

Using the mirror behind the bar to avoid direct glances, I observed several things. There were eight or nine women in the room, ranging from a just legal teen, who looked twenty-years-old from the waist down while appearing barely thirteen from the waist up, to a couple of women easily twice her age. Their attractiveness also varied, although that’s an individual assessment. In the dark, who can really tell anyway? What didn’t vary was the amount of make-up each one wore. It was a lot.

The uniform du jour appeared to be a sheer negligee that strategically turned opaque just enough to obscure the breasts, along with a g-string thong and these stupid, garish five-inch-plus heels that put at least an inch and a half of plastic under the ball of the foot to make them at all wearable. There’s probably some name for them, but I sure don’t know it. And when the fad for these passes, I won’t spend a second lamenting it either. I don’t know why women think these clunky excesses made from the petroleum remains of dead dinosaurs flatter them. Or am I just old fashioned?

One other thing. None of the women remotely resembled the description I’d heard for Star.

* * * *

I sat there nursing my drink while considering my options. I could slink out quietly. That would be easiest. I wouldn’t be remembered. It would be as if this all never happened.

Or I could sit here and wait. She might be busy at the moment. And then what?

Or I could just ask.

It took a while to do the obvious. Fortunately things livened up a few minutes later. A couple more customers came through the front door—the start of the evening rush, I presume—and a man came from the back, followed by another woman who also was not Star. He must have just finished his business considering the big smile on his face. He handed that woman some more money and got a peck on the cheek in return.

All this took most of the attention off of me, for which I’m profoundly grateful. I took advantage of the opportunity by motioning one of the girls over and asking about Star. I wanted to appear confident and unimpressed by the near nudity and easily available sex, but I knew I’d already blown that possibility. Every one of these women knew the sex trade far more intimately than I ever would. I’m sure they’d seen through me the first minute I got here.

But this woman was very friendly in her answer, as though Star was her best friend, rather than a competitor for her business.

“I’m Sheila. Star is in back right now,” she said in a surprisingly young sounding voice, which I assume meant that Star was busy with another customer. “I’m sure she’ll be out soon. I know she’ll want you to wait for her. Can I get you anything while you wait?”