Chapter 1

It was the year before I went to college that I first learned the value men placed on what lay between my legs.

Well, there was more to it than that, of course. I was beautiful. I'm not being all that conceited when I say that. I know what's considered beautiful, after all, and I fit the bill. It's not anything I'm, responsible for. It's just a fact.

I have long, coppery red hair, thick and full and lusciously soft, mostly straight, with thick bangs over my forehead. I have a very pretty face, with high cheekbones and a small chin, a small mouth with full, pouty lips, and a narrow, aristocratic nose. I have deep, bright green eyes that I can change easily between naive innocence and confident intelligence.

I'm five-ten, a hundred fifteen pounds. I have full round breasts that are just a bit too large for my chest, but not quite large enough for me to be considered busty. My waist is very narrow, and I have wide, womanly hips with a tight, round butt. My legs are long and smoothly contoured, perhaps my best feature, really.

In other words, I fit the bill for beauty pretty darned well, and always have. I was a cute kid. In high school, and even in junior high all the boys wanted to get their hands on me.

And some of them got more than that on me.

I was no virgin. I'd been blessed in that my very first sexual experience, the one where I lost my cherry, was to a guy who knew what he was doing. I came like gang busters, which is not usually the case, you know. That colored my opinion of sex and I got as much as I dared afterwards.

Not that I was a slut. I fucked guys for my own pleasure, not because I was this weak, stupid little fool who couldn't say now or was desperately looking for affection. I picked the guys I fucked, and we did it when and where and how I wanted it.

Still, I'd had to be careful to some extent. I couldn't just fuck anyone, or I'd get a reputation, and I valued other people's opinion of me, at least to some extent. I wound up jerking off a lot more than I would have liked, just because I didn't have some guy available who I could trust to keep quiet.

Anyway, school had let out, high school, I mean, and I had the summer to get up enough money for college. I mean, my parents would help, but they didn't have much money, so I'd have to pay at least half myself.

I spent some weeks looking for jobs, but most of them ... actually, all of them, were low paying crap jobs like waitressing and store clerk. They mostly paid about four to five bucks an hour, and, though I wasn't a math whiz, I could add that up pretty clearly into how little I'd make for an entire summer of work.

I wasn't keen on working in the summer to begin with. After all, I'd always had my summers off, except for maybe a little part time job the previous summer. The idea of working forty hours a week was no appealing, and doing it for little money, all of which I'd have to spend on school, was even worse.

Anyway, getting back to the math, I figured that at five bucks an hour I'd make no more than two hundred a week, minus taxes, of course. That was twenty-four hundred bucks for the summer, again minus taxes. Probably I'd clear less than two thousand.

That wasn't much.

Anyway, I got a job as a clerk in a fancy wine store. The place sold no liquor or beer, just wine, and no cheap wine either. I was frankly amazed at the prices people were willing to pay for a bottle of wine, hundreds of dollars in many cases.

I made two hundred and fifty dollars a week, and it didn't take me long to decide that I was made for better things. I was looking around for another job when I met mister Smythe.

Smythe came in one day and bought a case of wine for three thousand dollars. I could only shake my head, for that was more money than I'd make for the entire summer.

Smythe was in his fifties, but was very trim and fit, and very handsome too. We got to talking as I rang up his bill, and I said how it must be great to have money.

"Ahh, having money is just a matter of finding out where your talent is and using it ... Allison," he smiled, reading my name tag.

"I'm just going to college this fall," I sighed. "I don't have any talents yet."

"Ahhh, I disagree," he smiled. "From where I stand I can see you have many talents."

"Oh?"

"You're charming, lovely ... "

"I can't get rich on my looks," I snorted. "Not unless I happened to get in with some kind of modeling agency or film producer."

"Oh, I don't know," he grinned. "There are other ways to make money."

"Yeah, tell me one and I'll do it," I smiled, just chatting, you know.

He looked me up and down, grinning, and I figured out what he was talking about. I blushed and tsked, thinking he was joking.

"They say women sit on their fortunes," he said.

"I've heard that," I snorted. "That's sexist."

"If men could get paid to have sex they'd all be prostitutes," he said.

"Men are all whores," I laughed.

"True. We'd give it away."

He left, and I thought no more about our conversation. Then he came back a week later and bought two more cases ... for five thousand dollars.

"Is this wine really worth that?" I asked.

"Is it that much better than ordinary wine, you mean? Probably not, but money isn't a big bother for me. If I can afford the best, why not buy it?"

"I guess," I said.

"I always get the best," he smiled.

"I can't afford the best of anything," I sighed.

"Ah, you will one day. I can see you're made for better things than this."

"I agree with you there."

"Well, use your charm, pretty girl, find a more rewarding profession."

"I've tried," I said. "There's not much out there."

"I know a prospective opening that would pay fairly well."

"Oh, yeah?" I said, with a flicker of interest.

"My love slave," he growled teasingly.

I snorted and shook my head.

"Pays well," he grinned.

"Uh huh," I said.

"Say, five hundred dollars a week."

"That's not much," I protested.

"Ah, but that's just one evening's work per week."

"Oh, five hundred a day. That's pretty good. Hell, that's twice what I make here for a whole week."

"You're hired then," he said.

He took out a card and handed it to me. "Be here at seven tomorrow evening."

I frowned as I stared at the card, then I looked up at him, just beginning to get the idea that he was serious.

He wasn't smiling. He walked out of the door, the boy following him with the two cases of wine on a handcart. I gazed down at the card, then up at him through the window again.

At first I got angry, and tossed the card into the garbage. I mean, who did he think he was anyway? And what kind of a girl did he think I was? Of all the nerve!

Then, kind of, you know, thinking about it, I wondered what it would be like to sleep with him. I thought he'd probably be a better lay than most of the guys I'd had, that he'd probably be more experienced, gentler, more caring than them.

Then I thought about getting paid five hundred dollars, two weeks' salary, for one evening's "work".

Then I remembered he'd said one evening per week. He meant every week. It would be like, well, like a job, you know, only it would pay twice as well as this one, and take up only one evening a week. For all intents and purposes I'd have the summer off.

That's when I first began flirting with the notion of actually, well, of doing it. Okay, not seriously, but, you know, just kind of thinking of how it would be like.

I mean, hell, it wouldn't be bad having sex with him. In fact, it would probably be enjoyable. Getting paid money for it would just eliminate the need to work every day at a crummy job like this.

I fished his card out of the waste basket and examined it again. The address was in Rockliffe Park, the exclusive home of the city's richest people. I'd gone through there a few times on my bike, drooling over the gorgeous mansions and gardens.

I tried to convince myself he'd been kidding, but I knew he wasn't. He was really suggesting that I come over and let him ... fuck me ... for money.

Again I became indignant, but I shoved the card back into my pocket.

The next morning at work a messenger delivered a box to me with two dozen red roses. Inside the box was a small card. "See you at seven," It said. There were five one hundred dollar bills inside.

I was shocked, indignant, flattered, confused, I didn't know what to think. Five hundred dollars in cash! This guy was serious!

Again I thought about having sex with him. Again I figured it would probably be enjoyable. I'd only seen him twice, but I felt he was a nice man. I had no fears that he was some kind of a demented psycho or something.

I thought about it all day, wavering between one decision and another. First, I thought I'd send him his money back by mail. Then, I thought I'd keep it and teach him a lesson. Then I thought about bringing it to him, along with the flowers, and throwing it all in his face.

But he was a nice guy. I mean, he'd acted pretty nice. It was hard to feel violent towards him.

The idea of actually doing it, of fucking him, flittered through my mind again and again, but I kept rejecting it.

I just wasn't sure why.

I mean, well ... like I said earlier, I'd probably enjoy it. Why shouldn't I do something I liked doing? Why not? It would sure make my life easier.

No, no, I couldn't.

I went home after work and put the flowers into a vase, lying to my parents about who'd sent them to me. I went up to my room and considered what to do, for I still hadn't made any decision.

I stripped out of my work clothes and stood in front of the mirror in my bra and panties. Almost without thinking about it I began to pose seductively for myself, smiling, running my tongue along my lower lip, sliding my hands up through my thick, red hair, and arching my back.

I looked down at the dresser, where the five hundred dollars was, then back at myself. I thought about all the time I'd have for the beach and partying if his offer was genuine and I accepted it.

But no, it was impossible. I couldn't.

I went to the closet and almost defiantly pulled out a jumpsuit. It was black, and though it was made for a woman's body it was not particularly tight or anything. It zipped up from crotch to throat, and was the kind of thing you wore when painting or cleaning, not for going on a date or ... or anything like that.

I pulled my hair back behind me into a tail, then wound it up and tied it loosely. Then I picked up the five hundreds and went downstairs to the car. I drove across town to Rockliffe park and found the right street, then slowly searched along the gates for the right number.

When I found it I parked for a few minutes, thinking about what to say. Finally, I decided to just politely tell him I wasn't interested, give him his money, and go.

I drove through the open gate and up to the house, then got out and nervously walked up to the big front door.

I couldn't help looking around at the place. It sure was nice, nice and big. I wondered why a single guy living alone wanted a big place like this. Maybe it was like he said, if you could afford the best, then get it. What did it matter if it was a waste of money?

Then I thought, what if he didn't live alone. But no, of course he must. He wouldn't have dared give me his card and invite me over if he had, like, a wife and kids running around.

I rang the bell, wondering if the door would be answered by some kind of English butler. It was Smythe himself, though, that answered the door.

"Miss Connely, You're early, but I'm pleased you could make it," he said, smiling as he motioned me in.

"Uh, I uh, can't stay," I said. "I just came to bring you back your money."

"Oh but you must at least have a drink of wine. You did say you wondered what a three hundred dollar bottle of wine tasted like."

"Well ... okay," I said a little nervously.

He led me into a huge entry hall with a big chandelier hanging in the middle. We turned into an enormous ... living room, I guess you'd call it. It had a giant fireplace at one end, floor to glass windows alone one wall, and enough sofas and chairs to seat several dozen people easily.

He led me over to one of the sofas, motioning for me to sit there as he walked to the bar and went behind it.

"I thought you were joking in the store the other day," I said, anxious to reaffirm to him that I had no intention of having sex with him.

"I never joke about business," he smiled, popping a cork, then pouring wine into a glass.

"Business?" I asked.

"Well, a business arrangement," he shrugged, bringing over the wine and glasses. "Something that would be mutually beneficial for the both of us."

"Look, Mister Smythe," I said.

"George," he interrupted.

"George," I said. "You're a very attractive man, and you have ... " I looked around and shook my head "A lot of money. I'm sure you'd have no trouble finding women who'd be willing to share some time with you."

"Bimbos impressed by my money, you mean?"

"Uhm, well ... "

"But why should I go to all the trouble of seeking them out and impressing them when all they're interested in is my money? It's far easier to simply pay a young lady to spend a few precious hours with me. Then I don't have anything to worry about."

"But ... but ... "

"I'm simply not interested in any kind of long term personal relationship, my dear. Quite frankly, women your age are rather, well, for the most part, they don't share any of my interests, and I share few of theirs."

"Well, then why don't you find some ladies your own age?"

"Oh, but I do. I enjoy spending time with them. Sex, though, is something else again. For sex, there's nothing better than a young, soft, firm, eager female, one who isn't socked, one willing to do whatever I want without protest. If I can purchase something like that why shouldn't I?"

"Well ... I guess there's no reason," I said hesitantly. "But I'm not a hooker."

"Not yet, no."

"I don't intend to ever be one," I said firmly.

"You're no virgin, surely?"

"No, but ... "

"Tell me the difference between having sex with someone for free, and doing it for money."

"Normally when you have sex with a man it's because it's someone you care for, someone you intend to have a relationship with, someone ... "

I suddenly realized I was repeating that same stupid double standard I hated, the one that said men can have as much sex as they want but women needed to have a special relationship with a guy before sleeping with them.

I remembered then, the guys I'd slept with who I barely knew, guys I'd had sex with just for pleasure, guys who's names I didn't even know. It had been for fun, not money, but couldn't it have been for both. If they'd showered me with money afterwards, why should I have protested that?

What was wrong with fucking for fun ... and then getting paid afterwards?

I looked at George in a new light, as a prospective bed partner. Certainly, he was older than anyone I'd ever slept with before, but I was still willing to bet, as I had before, that he would probably be better in bed than most of the callow boys I'd had sex with.

He was nice, he was handsome ... why shouldn't I sleep with him? Hell, the money was beside the point. If he could show me a good time that would relieve me of the chore of finding guys with tight lips. I hadn't had sex in several months now, and with a full time job staring me in the face it wasn't likely I'd change that soon.

Unless I took him up on his offer. Not only would he, presuming he was any good, show me a good time at least once a week, but I wouldn't have to work anymore. I'd also get twice as much money as I did at work.

I think he sensed my indecision, for he just sat there and smiled, and sipped from his wine glass. I picked up my own for the first time, and took a sip. It was quite good, actually, though I didn't see that it was worth all that much more than cheaper wine.

George shifted a little closer to me. My mind was whirling with indecision. Should I or shouldn't I? The advantages of agreeing were many, while the down side was ... Well, I didn't see a downside. That made it hard to say no.

George was on my right side, and his left arm came up and slid over my shoulders. I flinched, but did nothing, still not certain which way I should fall, what to do.

Being a prostitute!

No more getting up at six and working all day. Twice the money. Spending all day at the beach or with my friends.

But being a prostitute?

George's hand slid through my long red hair, and he deftly untied the knot holding it back in the tail. It tumbled loose around my face, and George smiled. I held my breath as my heart pounded. George's right hand slid against my cheek and stroked it lightly.

He pulled my face gently towards him as he leaned into me. For a second I pulled back, just a for a second, then his lips were pressing against mine. They were ever so soft, and I sighed and gave myself up to his kiss.

My pussy was starting to sparkle as the notion, the realization, that I was going to allow him his way with me settled on my mind and was transmitted down through my body. A part of me said this was terrible, immoral, but I ignored it.

George's lips pulled back, then pressed forward again as he eased me back on the sofa. His lips slid over mine and his tongue gently stroked against my lips, then pushed inside just a little.

George's left hand continued to stroke my hair as his right shifted off my face and down onto my throat, then onto my shoulder. I almost held my breath as it slowly moved down onto my left breast, caressing it through the fabric of my jumpsuit.

It moved on, stroking along my side and hip, then up my belly to cup my breast again. It was very gentle, and stirred the fires inside me far more than a harsh groping would have.

He eased back, smiling still, a nice smile, not a dirty one, not a smug one. His hand went to my throat and he carefully gripped the zipper running down the front of my jumpsuit. Slowly, teasingly, he eased the zipper downwards, down towards my breasts, then further, exposing the lacy pink bra and the center of my chest.

Down further, down my belly, down to my belly button, then still further, down to where the waistband of my matching pink panties were. He let it go, his hand sliding onto the exposed flesh of my abdomen, stroking it, sliding up my navel, up my chest to cup my left breast through the bra.

He eased in and kissed my throat, then my lips again as his hand cupped and kneaded my breast through the bra. His fingers stroked the upper swells of my breasts just above the small pink bra, then both his hands gripped the sides of my jumper.

He pulled his face back as he pulled the jumper wider, pushing it over my shoulders to expose my entire chest for the first time. His eyes moved to my breasts, encased in the bra, and he licked his lips admiringly.

Then he pushed a hand in behind me and undid the bra clasp. I eased loose, and he lifted it and bared my breasts.

My face reddened in embarrassment at the sudden nudity, but he was looking at my breasts, not my face, and his gaze was one of admiration mixed with lust.

"What magnificent breasts," he breathed.

I blushed even more deeply, though I was pleased.

"I've seen bigger ones," he said. "But never ones so ... finely made, not real ones anyway."

He pushed the jumpsuit further down my arms and I pulled my arms free, then reached down and lifted the bra up and over my shoulders. I was now naked to the waist as George continued to admire my breasts.

His hands cupped them and held them reverently, then he began to stroke the undersides.

"Magnificent," he repeated. "Lovely and magnificent, the firmness of youth, the softness of a flower."

His hands caressed my breasts, circling them, squeezing lightly, then he bent forward and kissed my left nipple. The kiss turned into a long, lingering, suck, soft, but insistent, with his tongue swirling around my hot pink bud with careful, expert movements.

Never before had anyone made such love to my breasts. For long minutes he simply stroked and squeezed and kneaded and licked and sucked on both breasts. His lips suckled on my nipples, his teeth gnawed lightly, teasingly, his tongue swirled and twirled and lapped with delighted pleasure.

My breasts had swollen, my nipples hardened, before he'd even gotten my jumper open. After perhaps ten or fifteen minutes of squeezing and stroking and sucking, they felt as hard as rocks, the skin straining tautly as it tried to envelope the swollen flesh within. My nipples burned and crackled with sexual electricity, reveling in the long, wondrous suckling and rubbing.

I was breathing hard, my pussy buzzing and drooling, and he hadn't even done more than play with my breasts. I was terribly excited, and wanted to tell him to get on with it, to fuck me now, hard, but I was conscious that he was paying me, that he could do as he wanted, when he wanted.

And that thought excited me more. I felt like a wicked, slutty girl, a hot, slatternly whore .that used men for her pleasure. I'm a prostitute, I thought dazedly, my groin throbbing with lust and heat and desperate yearning.

I laid my head back and groaned weakly as my breasts pulsed with heat and pleasure. They felt like overfilled balloons that would explode from the pressure within, and every touch, every stroke of his fingers sent raw sexual excitement ripping through my chest.

I was on the verge of an orgasm, and he hadn't even touched my pussy! I'd never had sex like this before. My previous experiences had always been rough, hurried grappling in the backs of cars. This was something completely new.

One of George's hands slid down my bare belly then and into the waistband of my panties. I gasped and stiffened as I felt his fingers sliding through my small thatch of red pussy hair, then press against the hot, moist center of my being.

I whimpered and my fingers clutched into fists beside me as I jerked my legs further apart. I felt his fingers against my slit, felt them pressing down, stroking.

And I came, gurgling in wondrous pleasure as I humped and jerked and groaned in exultant sexual heat. My head rolled and thrashed from side to side as the orgasm whipped through my overheated body. My loose red hair flew from side to side, until it covered my vision, my face, like a red veil.

George's fingers pressed down harder just as my orgasm began, and he began to stroke back and forth over my clitty with short, sharp, rapid movements, sending fire burning through my belly as the power of the orgasm rippled up and down my spine.

I went limp, groaning weakly as my chest heaved.

"Well now," he smiled, "Wasn't that nice? You're a very responsive young lady, Allison."

"I've never ... No one's ever ... done that," I panted.

"What?"

"Done ... spent so much time ... I don't know," I groaned. "You're so much ... more ... " I couldn't quite explain it, explain how much more expert his fingers and lips were than the boys I'd had sex with before, how he made my loins burn with fire."

He seemed to understand anyway, and he smiled as he stroked my breasts and belly.

He gripped my sides and buried his face between my breasts, slowly rubbing it between my breasts. He pressed his hands against the sides of my rounded orbs then, pushing them in against his face as I looked down, eyes blinking.

He pulled his head back, smiling. He stood up and gripped my hand, pulling me to my feet beside him. He gripped the sides of my jumpsuit, which was bunched up around my waist, and pushed it down.

It slid down my thighs, and I bent and pulled my shoes off, then stepped out of the jumpsuit. He pulled me across the floor, him still fully clothed in an expensive suit, me in just my lacy string bikini panties.

He didn't go to a bedroom, but just to a stereo. He turned it on and soft music filled the air, then he put his hand on my waist, and we began to dance.