Pale slender hands deftly reached out without a hint of fear or hesitation, listening to her stick shift purr. She was a master of her craft. Was she disrespected by many? Perhaps. In her house, however, her territory, she was a deity of pleasure. Garments discarded to the side of the bed, she smiled. To the johns that came to visit and paid the proper fee, she blew quite a few things, not least of which their minds. Sure, what got her into this situation was a pitiful disgrace for family life, parental figures nonexistent, abusive this that and the other, but she made this life her own. Her brothel was a safe haven for other girls that ended up in the same position, and even if it wasn’t glamorous, socially appreciated work, it was still hard work that had a goodly number of customers. Sex made people happy, left them with a nice warm feeling in their core and a healthy dose of introspection. Wasn’t making others happy the goal of most good people? It was potentially dangerous work as well, though, without the blessing of the holier than thou government for her establishment, the risk fell to her girls and to her. She protected them. She paid large, male bodies for security. They did well. When a man is vulnerable and exposed to another man, it is a position of weakness for the naked man. She licked her fingers clean after the man finished and looked over to the shadow-like guard in the doorway with a satisfied little grin. Clients are always wary of causing problems when their penis is on the line.
