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About the author:
“Sasha” is the pen name for author Kiki Leach, whose more conventional works include contemporary dramas about spoiled twenty-somethings living it up in NYC, and fairytale retellings. She enjoys wine, skittles, Hershey’s chocolate bars and creating secret stories on the side that will make you ask yourself “WTF did I just read?”.
What inspired you to write your book?
The idea for the story popped into my head when I was watching a television show about love stories between people who explored various realms of their sexuality. Forced submission is an interesting theme that I wanted to explore in a bit more depth.
Here is a short sample from the book:
I wonder if I can get this bubble as big as the size of my head?
I lay back on my twin sized bed with my feet flatly planted against the wall as paint chips fall around my ankles. My eyes are focused on the water stained ceiling that just might cave in on me at any minute and my hands are outstretched on either side of me like I’ve been strung up on a cross, all while smacking on a piece of two day old gum and honestly pondering the question I’ve posed.
Inane thoughts like this are what I often use to plague my mind while forcibly lying underneath a 300 pound CEO of yet another casino who hasn’t showered in four days because he likes the ‘smell of success’ on his skin, and insists I call him ‘daddy’ for the purpose of pretending that I am his sixteen year old stepdaughter with an undeniable need for him to fuck me raw (though I wouldn’t and have never) and hard.
While he’s squeezing down on my average sized tits with his callous covered hands and sticking his cigar soaked tongue deep inside of my mouth to the point where I’m nearly choking on it, and thrusting his eraser sized dick inside of me between mumbles of ‘baby’ and ‘sugar’ and ‘sweet pussy like a nectar’, I start thinking about questions like this almost immediately and wonder as soon as he’s paid me and I’m off the bed, clothed and out his front door (because his wife and new daughter are of course out of town which allows me access into the actual house he shares with them, instead of the usual high priced but sometimes seedy motel across town), if I can actually blow a bubble the size of my head or even bigger while chewing on that same piece of stale gum.
Things like this are what keep me sane. Things like this keep me from jumping off of the nearest cliff or cutting myself until I bleed out all over the splintered floors of an unfurnished apartment that I can barely pay for. Things like this keep me in this business, in a lifestyle that I fell into when I was fourteen, after my father died from blowing his brains out using the same gun that was used to kill my mother, and his bitter bitch of a second ex-wife kicked me out of the only home I ever knew.
And all because she claimed there wasn’t enough space in the house for both me and her twenty-one year old son Jeremiah, who had planned to move in after completing some kind of rehabilitation program in Phoenix. I never managed to actually meet the son of a bitch because he moved in as soon as I was thrown out on my ass. But if I could have given him something before finally leaving and never taking a single look back, it sure as hell would’ve been a lot more than a small piece of my mind, something of which I was never able to give either.
I mean, at least Cinderella got to stick around and clean the house after her father died. Sure she was sent to the attic and her only friends were mice and a dog, but at least she didn’t have to spread her legs for a meal that didn’t come from the ground or inside a dumpster, to ‘depend on the kindness of strangers’ to take her in when it got too hot to even sleep on the park benches or beneath the bridges at night. Of course the men in those situations that I happened to come upon were always looking for something in return for not letting me die out in the streets of Vegas, and by then I knew the rules of the game and obliged if in the end I got what I wanted, along with some questionable amounts of spending money before leaving the next day and starting the cycle all over again with someone else.
For the last seven years, this is the only life I’ve ever known and I’ve handled it accordingly. I don’t deny it or try to hide myself or who I am. I may despise my upbringing or lack thereof. I may hate the cards I was dealt by whoever’s in charge up there, but I’ve dealt them wisely and evenly enough throughout. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t still be alive in a business where the average girl my age is either dead from an overdose or by strangulation from a pissed off asshole who didn’t get his rocks off with her like she promised he would, and in a timely manner.
After hearing the horror stories of girls who never made it back to where they started from after hopping into the wrong cars at night and sometimes midday, I’ve made sure that the man I’m with always comes at just the right moment, whether it’s between my tits (they’re favorite place to release) or on my ass. I’ll be damned if I go out by a baseball bat to the back of the head or a pair of sweaty hands wrapped around my throat or a needle inside of my arm, and dumped in an alley for the police to cover with a tarp weeks later all because I didn’t make a guy come fast enough or at all.
This life isn’t for everyone – strongminded only, weak need not apply. It’s definitely not for the faint at heart and I wouldn’t recommend it to my worst enemy. If I had any. In order to have those, you have to have people actually give a damn about whether you live or die and I don’t have that. Well, not exactly. The only person I know who actually gives a damn about my well-being is Manuella Sanchez, the owner and operator of Vegas’ leading escort service, Tails. The irony in that name has never been lost on me, but when I saw the ad stuck on the side of a lamppost one day after giving the worst head of my life in the backseat of a shabby red Camaro to a guy who could barely give me enough money to pay for the shoes I was wearing, I didn’t think I had much to lose. So I called the number and waited less than a day to receive information regarding an ‘unofficial interview’.
The good thing about the place is that Manuella currently caters to only the wealthiest of the wealthy, so I’m no longer forced into random cars on the street hoping that I’ll still have my head attached to my body once I get out, even though I’ve lost the remainder of whatever dignity I had left some place between the actual fuck and the moments after where he comes. The bad thing is that since I’m so new to her service, having only been a ‘Tail’ for the last three months or so, she’s only sending me out to the 300 pound casino owners with the stepdaughter fetishes and those who like to pretend they’re having sex with their mothers.
According to her, newbies need to start small with, in my opinion the most depraved of individuals, and thus gain more ‘experience’ in maintaining a ‘sexual prowess’ with a man you’ve induced you will never see the same again within a normal setting. She’s convinced that I must learn how to truly please these men to the point of making them practically beg for my sex in bed, thus making her (and by extension, myself) more money in the process.
“Turning tricks on the street for cash with men that can’t even pay for gas in the same car they’re using to fuck you in isn’t the same as getting a man off who doesn’t have to pay for sex, but want’s to with someone that he can’t normally have,” she told me the first time we met. “This life is a complete fantasy for them. Trust me on this if you never trust me on anything ever again: a man wearing a ten-thousand dollar three-piece suit will often pay more for a good screw if the woman knows how to please him with both her pussy and her mind at the exact same time.”
I more or less flashed a wide smile when she said that and kept my mouth shut for fear of blurting out something that would offend her which would in turn send me out on my ass and back into the streets. The meeting went on for about an hour or so while she explained to me the ins and outs of the business (so to speak) and before I left her office that day, she said she needed to let me know how beautiful I was and that if nothing else, I at least had that much to hold onto. That was right before telling me that I needed to take the necessary drug and blood tests in order to see if I was qualified for being officially hired into her service.
“No strung-outs and no diseases,” she said.
It was all the right things I needed to hear, at least until after the paperwork was signed, when she mentioned just before the meeting with my official first client that I needed to smooth out the roughness around my edges and be more like a girl.
That conversation led me to a man with a deep fetish for schoolgirls, Simon Templeton. I thought Manuella meant that I needed to be more feminine in how I acted and spoke to these men, not just in my appearance. It wasn’t until Simon that I realized she meant girl as in ‘young’, both mentally and physically for someone who only likes to fuck women who look as if they could be well under the legal age of eighteen.
He was forty-five, balding with a strip of white hair flossed from one side of his ear to the other, and a mouth filled with gold caps on every tooth that he had bought with some of the money he had earned from selling one of his mini theme parks in Reno. The first time I met him was at his house, because again, the wife was out of town and thus, he had the entire place to himself for a whole day.
After the company driver dropped me off at the curb, I walked up to the door and knocked. Simon hollered that it was already open for me and when I stepped inside, he was standing in the middle of the living room holding a short plaid skirt, along with a tight see-through white shirt that I was sure would suffocate me (my tits aren’t the size of watermelons but they aren’t the same pair I had when I was twelve either), and a red wig with pigtails sticking out on either side of it like PippiLongStocking, the crackwhore edition. My first instinct was to run out of there because I wasn’t sure what he was going to make me do while wearing all of that crap, but in remembering how much I needed the money, I grit my teeth and bared the encounter.
For three and a half hours, he forced me to run around the house in the entire outfit while screaming ‘CHASE ME! FUCK ME!’ while he gladly did both, the latter of which reminded me of a puppy just discovering earth for the first time – too excited to contain much control over himself and what he was actually doing to me, or even why. I’d like to say that it was worth the thousand dollar payday but it wasn’t. Looking back on it, I should’ve earned more for humiliating myself in a way I didn’t think was entirely possible. But since I was so fresh out of the water, a thousand dollars was all he was willing to pay, even for being one of the best fucks he’d ever had, which is what he said to me before planting his face deep in my cunt and passing out due to his apparent narcolepsy, which seemed to flare up every four hours. Talking to Manuella about trying to earn more money for my time spent was useless because this guy was a loyal customer that she didn’t want to lose. Other girls before me got at least five thousand or so their first time.
She reminded me that despite my ‘exotic’ beauty, I still had to consider the facts that I didn’t have the typical ‘Vegas’ look – paid for tits, bright blue eyes and bleach blond hair – which she admitted from the start would be a hindrance. But I have never been willing to permanently alter my appearance to appease anyone before and am not going to start now, especially for what I’m being paid. The majority of Vegas men may not be fond of my long dark curls and bright green eyes and at times not even my naturally tanned skin (most liked the girls pale, in Vegas, go figure), but I sure as hell am and always will be.
There are a lot of things the men in my life have taken from me, part of my soul, all of my virginity and innocence. But who I am and will always be as Shaylin Spencer is one thing I’ll never let a son of a bitch get his hands on. Never.
When my phone starts ringing near my head, I immediately regret having to answer it because I know that it’s no one but ‘Madam Manuella’ calling me in for my only appointment of the night, this time with a multiple spa and resort owner named Stanley Brakes, who seems to have six homes in the Keys and a ranch in Acapulco. He’s around thirty-eight years old, no children and lives alone, with the exception of the occasional party goer who likes to spend the night at his house instead of drive home after too many beers. When I first saw his picture, I noticed that he wasn’t as awful looking as most of the men that I’m forced to pretend to enjoy fucking. In fact, he was about as average looking as anyone named Joe Schmo and so I had to wonder why he would go through so much trouble to hire an escort for less than three hours. And what exactly was wrong with him aside from the fact that he more than likely couldn’t last longer than the average male, that Manuella felt the need to immediately dump him off on me.
“He’s a new client that likes dressing up in women’s clothing and wearing red lipstick while having sex,” she told me this morning.
I shrugged and pushed out my bottom lip, indifferent to the explanation. “That seems like nothing compared to some of the others I’ve gotten in the past.”
“He likes wearing those things while the woman he’s having sex with is dressed like an animal from one of those furry conventions that take place downtown, and wearing a strap on. Something about how he likes to the see the rings from his lips forming around the rim of the cock while the fur is pressed against his face. We worked out an arrangement where you’ll get paid by the fuck. I told him that you don’t do anal, and he was fine with it as long as you perform it on him at some point during.”
I wanted to run out of her office screaming BLOODY MURDER! down the street in my bare feet and underwear as soon as every single word about this man came out of her mouth. I would have been willing to risk the burns and blisters that would’ve come directly from the sun if I knew that in leaving I would’ve been allowed to come back and be placed with someone more, sane. But I knew that wasn’t an option. And so I sat there, mouth open, eyes wide and I asked her in as serious a tone as I could possibly manage without projectile vomiting all over her red sundress, “Pay me by the fuck? What the hell does that even mean?”
“It means you get five hundred for every time he manages to get his limp dick inside of you.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“A down payment has already been set in place. But if he gets it in, you get to keep whatever you earn.”
“Gee, thanks.” I actually should’ve been more grateful in my response to her because it was the first and only time I wasn’t required to give her a direct cut of my earnings from a potentially lousy screw.
I finally reach over for my phone just before it stops ringing and look down at the name. Sure enough, it’s her. I toss it back to the side and wait for the impending text message reminding me of what time to be down at the office so that the limo can take me to where I need to go. Within seconds, my phone dings and I grab it again. But when I look at the message that Manuella has sent, it’s not the one I’m expecting:
MAJOR PLAYER ALERT! MAJOR PLAYER ALERT!
ALL AVAILABLE GIRLS NEEDED IN THE OFFICE TONIGHT
WEAR YOUR SHORTEST DRESS AND HIGHEST HEELS
The ‘ASAP’ is followed by pictures of naked women swimming in a pool of dollar bills. The ‘MAJOR PLAYER ALERT’ usually means a new client with big money is on his way to town and has just signed up for the service – short skirts and high heels are usually what suck them in upon arrival. Considering I’m never chosen to show these men a good time around town unless as previously mentioned, they’re sleazes, pervs, straight up weirdos or into ‘ethnic looking’ girls, I take my time to get ready before heading down there.
After a cold shower, thanks to a busted water heater that the landlord has yet to fix, I scrunch my wet hair to make my curls appear bigger once it dries, slap on some eyeliner followed by a single coat of red lipstick, and find my shortest dress — not so much for the potential new client and more so for the one I already have. The higher the better is the way to go with men like this because they usually want to take the dress off of me to wear it for themselves rather than taking it off of me to see me naked. They seem to get a kick out of seeing their dicks swinging from beneath it.
After strapping my heels and grabbing my clutch, I say a little prayer and head out the door.