Ten months earlier (FLASHBACK)

Colt McCarron pulled up behind his home in Fairfax, Maryland, and cut the engine to his Hyundai Elantra. With the Coronavirus pandemic in full swing, he didn’t keep set hours as an Uber driver. He worked until his lower back was so sore that it told him it was time to stop, or until he ran out of patience for driving all over creation to pick up random passengers and get them to wherever it was they were going. The job itself wasn’t demanding and the pay was good, though that was offset somewhat by having to purchase a used vehicle (and all those trips to the gas station). There was no way he’d put 1,000 miles a week on his precious Jeep Wrangler for the sake of hauling around strangers. Still, doing rideshare every other day kept Colt busy as he, along with the rest of the world, waited for this shutdown craziness to end, and things to return to normal.

If they ever would.

And to add more stress and uncertainty, several mongers in the LPIN community were voicing concerns on Happy Ending Ranch’s bulletin board that Nevada Governor Steve Sisolak would never allow the brothels to reopen. How fair was that, really, with several Las Vegas hotels and casinos reopening a month ago at one hundred percent capacity?

Using his smartphone, Colt checked the GoFundMe campaign he’d set up for his employees who’d suffered the most financial difficulties in the past four months. Crowdfunding was now at $6,388 but had slowed down considerably since he launched the fundraiser three weeks ago. His plan was to divvy up the pot in equal portions to Sahara, Riley, Nicolette, Mariko, Jim, Francisco, Jenn, and Mindy, except for donations with specific directives attached to them. Dave Gregory, for example, sent an e-mail that his $1,000 handout was to be exclusively split between “Pamela and Kayleigh.”

Speaking of Lindsay, her Volkswagen Beetle wasn’t at the house when Colt pulled in. That meant he and Pamela would be alone. Well, at least until Lindsay’s shift at the supermarket ended.

A smile broke through his lips. This was new. Coming home to Pamela (and Lindsay, too) these past four months was something Colt liked far more than he ever anticipated. They were 2,500 miles away from Flagstone and that cursed brothel, and truth be told, it felt really damn good. Sure, he was concerned for his employees, especially Nicolette and Jenn, but a part of him would be fine if LPIN forever ceased to exist. As for now, Colt no longer had to worry about how many mongers would sink their dicks into his wife on any given day. Or his girlfriend gushing about her latest party, and how kind the man was to her.

He and Pamela had to make Lindsay swear that she wouldn’t go the illegal route and start escorting throughout Baltimore. For a while, it was a legitimate concern as she seemed intent on it. Earning eleven bucks an hour as a cosmetics clerk at Eshleman’s Grocery was pennies compared to what she made at the brothel. To Lindsay, it was not a livable wage, though she had minimal expenses staying with Colt and Pamela in their home. Lindsay agreed to avoid hooking but wasn’t happy about it.

Then again, a lot of people nowadays weren’t happy.

Kicking off his shoes in the front foyer, Colt realized the kitchen was empty. As was the living room.

“Pamela?” he called out.

She kept busy, too, but opted to work from home selling customized shirts and knickknacks on her Etsy shop and delving back into the webcamming game. Unlike pornography and prostitution, there were no laws regulating this form of sex work. In her public video chat room on Streamate, Pamela, often wearing skimpy lingerie or a naughty costume, would interact and flirt with all her viewers. Here, payment was voluntary, and she was tipped for performing both sexual and non-sexual acts.

But if a viewer opted to go private, Pamela received a premium on a pay-per-minute scale. And, unlike her public chatroom, these performances tended to be highly pornographic, as she’d appease the customer’s wicked requests by often spreading herself open and playing with a variety of sex toys.

It’s still better than taking endless dick at the brothel. “Pamela, sweetheart, where are you?”

“Out here!”

He followed her voice to the front porch.

Where she was lounging in the hammock.

And she looked so damn fine that he stopped for a beat and gripped the doorframe between the house and the porch.

Pamela anchored a sultry gaze on him. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He held the edge of the doorframe harder.

She shifted and stretched her legs out to get a more direct view of him, the hammock swaying. “You okay?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. Do I not look okay?”

“You don’t look okay.”

“What do I look like?”

“You look tired,” Pamela said after studying him for several seconds. “And sleepy. Maybe you’re in need of a pick-me-up?”

“Been a long day.” He relaxed his grip on the doorjamb and twirled his head about. “Did eighteen trips and put close to three hundred miles on that little car.”

“Make any money?”

“Two hundred and fifty-three dollars, sixty of which were tips.”

“Nice.”

“How about you?”

“Seven hundred and change.” Pamela’s focus again tracked over him from head to toe. “I had quite the generous tipper this morning on webcam.”

Unlike many of their contemporaries in the LPIN industry, Colt and Pamela weren’t hurting in the money department. For starters, they had quite the sizable nest egg, both in savings and investments, and could live off that for the next decade-plus if need be. And instead of sitting on their asses and taking the woe-is-me approach, they adapted to these unprecedented times, and did the best they could.

Earning an income from rideshare wasn’t ideal, and certainly not a job Colt ever envisioned having, but it was easy, and he did enjoy driving around the area. I just don’t like some of the degenerates I have to pick up. Best of all, he could turn the app on or off at his leisure. On the other hand, there was always the risk of contracting COVID-19 from a random stranger. Masks are required for both driver and passenger, and I generally keep all four windows down to minimize the risk.

Webcamming took thick skin and a lot of patience, something which Lindsay did not have an overabundance of. Thus, she was off working at the supermarket instead. Pamela, though, thrived on competition, and having to reinvent herself and what she offered daily to keep her audience entertained provided quite the challenge.

“Oh, you’ll get a kick out of this,” Pamela said. “The guy who tipped me so generously this morning messaged me before we went private, saying he wanted me to use a tampon as if it were a dildo to masturbate with. I think that takes the cake for the weirdest thing I’ve been asked to do in all my years of camming.” Her eyes narrowed and she held back a grin. “Tampon play. Do a web search.”

“Don’t need to. Already know about it. A few mongers have asked for that in the past, though I guess it was before you were ever working at the ranch.”

<> <> <> <> <>

Four Hours Earlier

“Hi guys. Dakota here. Thanks for coming to meet me live here in my private home gym. How are you guys doing?” With a video camera worthy of being in a television news studio opposite from her, Pamela was all sunshine and rainbows as she spoke to her abundance of followers, invisible as they may be. “Those of you that saw me earlier, thank you for coming back to see me. Let’s play again.” On the big-screen television to her left (and out of the camera’s view), a wall of text – messages from her private chat room on Streamate – scrolled continuously. While impossible to keep up with, Pamela – Dakota – still did her best to read every comment. “Yeah? You like my legwarmers today? I thought I’d go ahead and rock ‘em. I think they’re cute.” She did a pirouette and giggled.

A blonde powder keg of sex waiting to burst, Pamela could oftentimes be found lounging around her home in training gear. Today she had on a black sleeveless top, its clingy fabric exhibiting the bulge of her breasts. Little blue shorts, made of Lycra, clutched her hips and buttocks, and the outline of the pouch between her thighs was easy to see. Tanned and chiseled, sculpted legs (though covered by blue legwarmers from the knees down) gave way to a pair of delicate, bare feet. Lastly, Pamela had a white sweatband tugged across her forehead, with the crimson-red Nike logo front and center to complement her athletic attire.

“Joe, hello. Neo, thank you for coming to see me. What’s your huge favor, Griffin? The eighties called and want their legwarmers back?” A smile materialized. “Oh, I like them, Seabass. They’re cute, they’re playful! Hi Shawn, thank you. I’m sure you’re hot, too, baby.” She blew an exaggerated kiss his way. “Alex, thank you. So today …” The camera followed Pamela on its own, keeping her in frame as she descended to the floor and sat with her knees up. “… I guess we’ll just play a little bit and see what you guys have in mind.” The thirty-two-year-old broke out into wild laughter while continuing to read the comments. “Could you do a karate kick, roundhouse style? That would so make my day.” Still laughing, she rose to her feet. “I don’t know if I could do a karate kick! How do you even do one of those? I’m a lover, not a fighter.” Pamela gave it a solid attempt, though, and even screamed “Chuck Norris!” in the process.

“Is that good? Yeah, let’s do a little workout first, some stretching – feel the burn – and I’ll talk with you guys.” She took a seat and reclined on her hands. “Griffin, was that good? Was that a good enough karate kick for you? Of course, Shawn, I’ll blow you another kiss. Eric, I love you, too, baby. Thank you for coming back to see me.” Pamela palmed her breasts and massaged them. “My boobs look good in this top apparently.” She transitioned to a full straddle-split upon her yoga mat. “So, I’ve been hangin’ out at home all day in my self-imposed COVID quarantine, and it’s nice to get in here, in my gym, and stretch out.

“Can you put your knees behind your head? Well, let’s give it a try.” Pamela toppled over, onto her back, and held a position she was quite familiar with for several seconds thanks to all those years of working at the brothel.

She surged upright and tilted her head. “When are you finally going to have some hardcore boy/girl clips available for purchase and download?” Gotta get Colt on board for that … good luck. “I would be open to doing hardcore scenes for my channel, but it would probably be girl/girl.” I have a much better chance of getting Lindsay to agree to that than Colt. “I do masturbation, you know, bondage … I’m into that sort of stuff. Next week, I’m shooting a bondage layout with a local photographer. He and his team, they’re gonna tie me up and stuff, and I guess put vibrators on me, slap me around a little bit. That will be a lot of fun, I think, because I’m actually into stuff like that in my personal life. That will be pretty hardcore, I think, and I plan on eventually having those pictures here on my webpage where you’ll be able to purchase them.

“My age? Umm, I’m twenty-four. I’ll be twenty-five come January.” Heh … I’ve been twenty-four on here for the past six or seven years. “Yeah, Seabass, I agree. COVID sucks. Would you fuck a fan? Well, you’d have to meet me first, right? Then we’d discuss that. Alex, you wanna come on my face?” She leaned closer to the camera. “You can come all over my face whenever you want, baby. Lester, you’re looking forward to the bondage? So am I, so am I. What size bra do I wear? They fluctuate sometimes, but on most days I’m a thirty-six-D. I don’t think they always look that big because I’m a bit on the tall side – I’m five-foot-six. I guess that’s not tall-tall, but it’s not short either.

“Bobby-B, your cock needs a workout too? Stay tuned, baby, and I promise you’ll get one. I’m not accepting any VIP one-on-one cam shows for the next thirty minutes. There’s nineteen of you here, at least at the moment, and I want to hang out with everyone. Let’s chill and have fun. Welp, now there’s twenty-one.

“Umm, I’m from Florida. Been here all my life, love it here. I would love to work out with you. Oh, that’s sweet, Griffin. No, I don’t think I need bigger boobs. These are all natural, and I’m happy with them. They’re great for titty-fucking – that’s one of my favorites! Any anal in the show today? Umm, maybe in private.

“Would you talk dirty to me, please, in a sexy voice?” Pamela went into full actress mode. “Matt from Canada, I can’t wait to make you come, baby. I’m gonna make you come so fuckin’ hard.” Her smile returned. “Alex wants me to leave the legwarmers on for the entire show. Good; I’m glad, because they’re cute! Umm, what sports do you play in a sports bra? You can play whatever sports you want in a sports bra, Calvin. I like playing basketball, soccer, softball, cheerleading … I did all of that when I was in high school and college. Oh, Joe, I’m glad I’ve made you hard, baby. I love hard dicks. Shawn? Of course, I’d love to suck your dick. Is it okay if I come on your legwarmers?” She laughed again. “Yes, you can, Alex, but you better hope they wash out because I’ll be fucking pissed at you if they don’t. You’ll have to buy me new ones.

“Take that top off and put those boobs together.” A small grin stole her lips as she gazed sidelong into the lens. “Okay, okay, I know that’s what all of you want … plus so much more.” Pamela tapped away at the wireless keyboard beside her. “Okay, if we can get thirty dollars into my donation box, which I just opened, the top will come off.”

A two-dollar pledge came almost instantly. Then four. Three. And a solid thirty.

“Oooooh, Jake, you’re so generous! Thank you, honey.” Pamela discarded her aerobic top and squished her breasts together as she continued to interact with the masses. “Tear those shorts off and lay on the bench so we can see your pussy. I will, I will, but you have to wait. Patience, baby.”

On the majority of webcamming sites models like Pamela utilized to stream from home, performers could choose to accept or turn down audience requests at their own discretion, and set their own rates for private shows or fetish requests such as foot worship, role-play, or penis humiliation. They could also block viewers who were rude or overly demanding from their chat rooms.

These websites, especially the ones that allow viewers to tip, typically require a 65% to 75% cut of the model’s earnings, sometimes on top of other processing fees. The job itself was far from glamorous, and Pamela insisted the rigors of working as a cam model were far more strenuous than those of a courtesan.

While she felt invested in a handful of her regular viewers’ lives, as certain ones would magically show up and often stay for the duration of every show, chatting nonstop and purchasing pay-per-minute video sessions, this occupation had several downsides. Pamela spent a lot of time playing referee during spats between fans, soothing jealous admirers, and struggled to maintain her personal boundaries with the more zealous ones who demanded access to her personal information. I need to know your real name. I need to know real facts about your life. I’ll tip a thousand dollars if you tell me. I want to feel like I’m getting more access to your life than anyone else.

Such ultimatums had the tendency to negatively affect Pamela’s mental and emotional health. Poor Lindsay can’t last thirty minutes before she gets flustered and quits. A certain segment of her clients felt entitled in other ways, too, because they believed payment equaled power. Webcamming took a tremendous amount of physical and emotional energy and with that came verbal abuse, too, as Pamela often fell victim to harassment and body shaming.

“Can you sit on the ball and bounce up and down? Yeah, I can do that.” Pamela turned toward the corner and weighed her options. “Let’s go for the big ball instead of the little one.”

Within seconds, she was atop the yoga ball and bounced as if she was riding a dick cowgirl style. “Umm, would you do a lez three-way? I absolutely would, Frank; I’d fucking love to do that. I think women are so sexy. Eric, you’re imagining I’m bouncing on your cock right now? I like that, baby. That’s hot. Mario, you can definitely put your cock between my titties. I would like that too.

“My favorite position is doggy. I like to be bent over, grab my hair, pull it, smack my ass, call me dirty names. Choke me a little bit – I like it rough. How often do I masturbate at home? I’m very sexual. I’m horny all the freaking time. I would say there are some days where I do it once, and others where I could go at it four or five times, if not more. Umm, let’s see. Do you love spanking your bottom? I prefer someone else to do it for me, Jake, so I can use my hand to rub my clit.

“Okay, okay, a lot of you are asking that I take my shorts off and go nude. I can do that, no problem, but only if we can raise another fifty dollars worth of donations. Come on, guys. Help a girl out here, will you? I gotta be able to put food on the table.”

As the show progressed, and Pamela later fucked herself with a hand-held dildo and sucked a second one off simultaneously, her brain finally fizzled out. “Fuck me harder ‘til I come, John. Fuck me harder! Ricky, please, please, make me come, baby.” Indeed, it took a herculean effort to keep up with the constant scroll of messages and all the random names that came and went from her chat room. “Deeper, Tony … deeper. Oh my God, I’m so fucking sweaty. Yeah, come for me, Alex. Shoot that big load all over my face and down my throat.”

God, I can’t wait for the brothels to come back so I don’t have to do this shit any more. …

<> <> <> <> <>

Lindsay Anastacio stood at her assigned spot inside Eshelman’s Grocery and surveyed the customers throughout the store. Most were in a crazed hurry, weaving in and out amongst the masses, looking to stockpile supplies. This place is a madhouse and these people are insane. The supermarket was incredibly busy, but that had been the new norm ever since the COVID-19 pandemic put its stranglehold on the world. Shelves up and down each aisle were devoid of product, with demand much greater than the supply, and both the produce and meat departments were barren wastelands.

Here Lindsay was, the runaway favorite for LPIN’s Courtesan of the Year, pulling minimum wage as – of all things – a cosmetics clerk at a grocery store in suburbia Maryland. Thank you for destroying my livelihood, COVID. Negativity spiraled from the pit of Lindsay’s stomach. Hell, not just that, but my entire life too. At this rate, would Governor Sisolak ever allow the brothels to reopen? I work way too hard here and make peanuts in exchange for it.

“How can this store be out of Clorox wipes?” Accepting the glaring anger that poured from a customer’s eyes, a fellow employee stood across the way and took it like a champ. Lindsay, however, recoiled and felt violated by his tone. “Every time I come here, you’re out of Clorox wipes. This place has gone to the shits in recent months!”

I wish COVID would just fade away so I can finally go home again. Just the thought of returning to Flagstone spun Lindsay into the stratosphere of her submissive imagination. Please, sir, let’s go back to my room so you can have your way with me in bed.

That particular bed, in room thirteen, meant something special to Lindsay too. That bed, more than anything, was home. Perhaps not home with a capital H as most individuals would associate the word with. No, Lindsay’s heart wasn’t there, no one had taken her in and given her shelter, nor did it have any sweet or sentimental factor. She hadn’t had a true home since leaving it two years ago.

But that bed, where Lindsay earned the bulk of her income at Happy Ending Ranch, did mean home to her. There, despite the debauchery and what the rest of the world may perceive of the dark lusts perpetrated on her, Lindsay felt herself more at home than she ever had before. In her little room stood that King-sized bed with the soft sheets, and though she allowed total strangers to do things to her in it that would horrify most women, those things made Lindsay happy – so happy that sometimes she felt like she would’ve done them even if there wasn’t a massive chunk of change waiting on the other side of each party.

Well … not really.

A middle-aged or perhaps elderly gentleman, frustrated with life, finding his wits hardly at his command from the pleasure Lindsay gave, taking him so deep into her throat that he felt on the verge of orgasm. The stranger would invariably ask her to ride him on the bed, then, reverse cowgirl style, but the action would ratchet up a notch (or three). They’d switch positions and Lindsay would find herself on her hands and knees, grasping the bedsheets as he thrust into her from behind with great abandon. “You like fucking, don’t you, Kayleigh?” she recalled her final monger telling her – before the shutdown – without ceasing to hammer in and out of her pussy. Keith. “Yeah, lie still and take it. Lie still and take it, and I may give you a tip.”

Snapping back to the current moment, Lindsay wondered if that cough or stickiness she felt her in her lungs could be attributed to the fact she didn’t get enough sleep last night, thus she didn’t feel well, or if it meant the onslaught of something far worse loomed on the horizon. I hope I’m not getting COVID too.

“Excuse me, miss. Could you tell me where the toilet paper is?”

Lindsay glanced up at the woman and dragged a smile from within (though hidden, of course, by her facemask). Toilet paper? How many people are going to ask me that insipid question tonight? God, I need to quit this place. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’re out of toilet paper.” Perhaps you should’ve been here at six in the morning when people were lined up around the corner outside to buy it before the store opened. “Check back tomorrow.”

No one would ever realize how alone Lindsay felt, one small, insignificant person in a world crumbling in panic all around her.

I want to go home.

Lindsay caught a glimpse of herself in a simple blue shirt and black work pants in the full-length mirror next to the cosmetics counter. Some prostitute she was. After yet another toxic night at the supermarket, barely making eleven bucks an hour, her plans tonight included binging more episodes of Game of Thrones via HBO Max on the sofa alongside Pamela. I love Pamela. I love Colt, too, because they’ve been so good to me.

But this life … I need more. Dare she say it, but Lindsay found herself disinterested and spiritless living with an older married couple who, away from the brothel, were her polar opposites. Colt doesn’t love me anywhere close to the way he loves Pamela. And all Pamela seems concerned with is reading books and making money with either her Etsy page or webcamming stream.

I’m just not feeling the vibes like I once did.

Lindsay considered calling her old friend from Happy Ending Ranch on her last break, Amelia (real name: Mia Flores), but discarded the idea before she’d picked up her phone. Lindsay and Amelia were the two youngest courtesans the house had to offer before lockdown and shared similar interests, and got along great, but things started to get a little weird between them once Amelia admitted to hooking up and moving in with Sammy. The pandemic is forcing people into desperate measures. And after an argument where Amelia insisted that Sammy wasn’t the horrible person Lindsay claimed he was … well, it was clear to Lindsay that her friend was gullible, just as she once was, and would have to learn things the hard way. I can’t help Mia if she refuses to listen to me.

On the other hand, she sure is getting a lot more dick right now than I am. Lindsay’s head wagged back and forth in frustration. I hate Maryland as much as I hate Citronelle.

Whipping out her phone, Lindsay queued up Happy Ending Ranch’s website and scanned her inbox with a raised eyebrow. Seventeen new private messages since she last checked at noon. Followers of the Kayleigh Legion were nothing if not loyal and inquisitive, asking for any update on both the brothel’s future and her own life. Cute of them. It was part of the package deal that came with being a finalist for Courtesan of the Year. I can’t believe I was nominated. Preferred clients like Darius, Javion, and Ryker wanted to interact with Kayleigh and feel like they were in her world, just as they had been in her body – particularly her vagina – multiple times.

Yeah, can’t do it. Lindsay sighed and closed the window. Kayleigh is so much more interesting and fun than Lindsay, isn’t she? The twenty-year-old would answer her messages later tonight. Lindsay is a dumb, pathetic girl who alienated her entire family and has a garbage job in a garbage town. She’d keep her loyal clients hungry with a reply for when (or if) the brothels reopened. The governor says our industry is nonessential; we are at the bottom of the totem pole, and I’m afraid COVID may be Nevada’s answer to finally keeping the brothels closed forever.

A dismal frown forged itself across Lindsay’s face. I need my job, my reason to live, back.

She tapped the phone and opened her main e-mail inbox, the same one she’d used for the past eight years. Lindsay had received a message – an offer – from a certain someone in her past almost a week ago and had been contemplating it ever since.

From: Phalen, Benjamin

To: Anastacio, Lindsay

Sent: July 5, 2020, 11:19am EST

Subject: Come visit me

Lindsay –

Hey, slave girl, how are you? I hear how you’re struggling and COVID has you down. I’m willing to up my offer to $30,000 in cash if you would travel to Utah and spend three days (72 hours minimum) with me. I can even arrange for you to fly on a private jet if that makes you more comfortable. It’s been well over a year since we last saw each other at the Tuesday night gangbangs and I STILL wonder what it would be like to play with you one-on-one. I promise there won’t be anyone – no Marvin, Jeff, Sam, Eddie, Trent, Rick, certainly no Mike – other than me.

Just keep in mind that if you agree to this, I will be very hard on you, I’m afraid, much harder than anyone ever has been before. I am saying this because I want you to know it and not be surprised.

But I have a feeling you could handle that, am I right?

At the same time, know that you will be safe and cared for, and I will respect your boundaries.

Take a few days to think about this if need be. Whatever schedule works for you works for me. It would be my honor to help and provide for you in these uncertain times.

-Sincerely, Master Ben

“Lindsay!”

Eyes wide, she swung her body to the side.

“If I catch you on your phone one more time,” George Warden, the supermarket’s manager, said while jutting a finger in her direction, “you can gather your things and go home, because you’ll be fired. You are here to work, not waste time on your phone, and I want you to do your job. This is your final warning, young lady.”

Lindsay’s hands squeezed into fists as her so-called boss stormed off. Fuck this place and everyone in it. She snorted through her nose. I need to get out of here.

“Hey George, you don’t need to fire me because I quit.”

(End of Chapter Thirty-Five - to be continued)