“When I was younger, I liked these to be lightly toasted. But now that I'm older, I like ‘em … charred.”

“Well, you’ve always had a thing for flaming balls.”

Amusement ricocheted through Pamela’s abdomen. “Stop being silly!” Full of sweetness and eternal sunshine, the thirty-year-old elicited positive energy and made everyone around her feel like they were important. Her compassionate heart and spirit were downright infectious. Pamela appreciated who she was and was grateful for what she had in life. Above all else, she understood that kindness was a language everyone gravitated toward.

Colt dabbed at his chin with a napkin and raised an eyebrow. “Do I still have marshmallows on my mouth?”

Snuggled together in the brothel’s backyard with the sands and stones of Calafell Canyon as their backdrop, Pamela sloped her head and locked on a grin, and stole not one, not two, but three quick kisses from her husband. “I don't think so.” She pulled away for a second glance, fleeting as it was, then kissed Colt again, all the while holding her own marshmallows-on-a-stick over an open bonfire flame.

Waiting for them to become charred.

Pamela grazed her lips along the sweep of Colt's collarbone and clutched his chest. “Oh, you're so cuddly!” She nestled her face upon the crook of his neck and a contented sigh slipped out. “A million times cuddlier than Beary Potter, even, and that's saying something.”

Pamela and Colt McCarron recently celebrated their tenth wedding anniversary by spending a week and a half in Bora Bora. A marvelous, fertile oasis of verdant valleys, azure skies, and sandy beaches, the idyllic island paradise had topped their bucket list for years. They rented a 1,576-square-foot Tahitian-inspired contemporary living and sleeping space – an overwater bungalow on stilts – which featured a wraparound sun deck, a stunning two-tier infinity pool overlooking the horizon, a hammock suspended over the lagoon, and a spacious bathroom with a rainfall shower and deep soaking tub.

Whether it was enjoying French Polynesian cuisine, snorkeling with the stingrays and sharks, bicycling to a dormant volcano and hiking to its summit, touring the region aboard a yacht, or witnessing the sunset amid a blaze of glorious tropical colors while sipping cold beverages, Bora Bora was the perfect binge for their milestone anniversary.

But when their vacation ended, it was back to the harsh, unforgiving climate of the Nevada desert and their professional lives. Colt had been working at Happy Ending Ranch his entire adult life and inherited ownership responsibilities after his father passed away on October 17, 2008. He didn't agree with many of his father's business tactics and set out to make immediate changes, both for employees and customers alike.

Pamela Annabeth Prescott was a darling, fresh-faced eighteen-year-old when she arrived on the scene from Fairfax, Maryland, and applied for a job two years prior on July 8, 2006. The house manager at the time, Colt found himself enthralled with Pamela. He'd interviewed thousands of exquisite young women over the years, but none gave him butterflies in his stomach until she came along. Nothing seemed disingenuous between them. Everything was comfortable and authentic.

Colt recognized he'd stumbled upon a gold mine, but it had nothing to do with Pamela’s earning potential. Her thoughts on every topic fascinated him. His curiosity led to more questions, and their conversation veered from the traditional interview into more personal matters. Colt’s heart rate sped up, his body temperature spiked, and the smile wouldn't leave his face.

He hired her on the spot.

And was already in love.

“The first day we met, I called my mom and told her I was going to marry you. I knew it right away.” Pamela’s eyes glistened with tears as she shared her own recollections. “Odd I came to such a magical aha moment in a brothel with you being my new boss, huh?” Pamela kneaded his hand and put it over her heart. “We liked each other right off the bat, but I …”

“We did?” Colt interjected with a goofy grin, fingers from his opposite hand stroking her thick, sumptuous hair. “When did that happen?”

Pamela tugged at his wrist and offered a callous glare, but couldn't suppress her smile. “Let me talk.”

Colt extended a hand.

“I remember I felt like a schoolgirl and couldn't stop feeling … ridiculous.”

Colt motioned toward her breasts. “And looking like that?”

“Looking like what?” Pamela hooked a finger around his belt and stifled a grin.

“Looking like that.” His bride dazzled in a bright, neon-pink bikini top and denim booty shorts, with golden blonde tresses sweeping down her back in long, vibrant waves. Her eyes were warm and sparkled with that trademarked air of mischief.

Mornings were often slow at the house, so Pamela and Colt opted to spend some one-on-one time out back by the bonfire pit and pool. Enclosed with high, inaccessible security walls and barbed wire on top, the backyard offered both safety and privacy. It was nice to connect each day as husband and wife, if just for a short while, since most of their energy while in town went to the brothel itself.

Colt always had a million things on his plate at the so-called office. As a provider, Pamela was on call for seventeen hours a day, six days a week. She also did what she could to help behind the scenes, such as screening new applicants from the website and talking to them over the telephone. But Colt made all the final decisions himself.

“Oooooh, I adore you. I want to gobble you up sometimes!” She leaned forward and brushed her cheek against his. “You're always complimenting me and giving me those steamy little looks of yours.”

He tipped his chin high. “You have like a thousand layers. You keep letting me discover them.”

Pamela slid a fingertip along his forearm. “What do you want to do?”

“How about each other?” Colt laughed in perfect unison with Pamela and brought her palm to his lips for a kiss. “You have such pretty hands.” His eyes marveled, just as happy about being with her as he was on their wedding night a decade earlier. “So delicate.” He nibbled on her fingertips and was extra careful with her fragile, manicured nails. “So precious.”

Every working girl was different. Some wanted no part of any relationship and found zero joy in physical contact. Sex was their job – the act itself was repulsive, and they tried to avoid it at all costs in their free time. Others feared having sex outside of work given STIs were so rampant, and if they caught one, it could ruin their career.

As for Pamela, her sex drive had been through the roof over the past several weeks. During their vacation, she wanted intercourse every night with Colt. He had no complaints and was thankful for her overcharged libido, however temporary it may have been.

Pamela had always differentiated her professional and private lives and never allowed the two to intersect. She may have been a pleasure and orgasm specialist who made herself available to anyone willing to pay her price, but Pamela loved her husband with all her heart. She would do anything to make Colt happy.

He reciprocated those feelings in full and supported Pamela one hundred percent. Colt had her back and would defend her and the choices she made to all four corners of the globe if necessary.

Theirs was a unique marriage. Colt often stood idly by in the bar and watched Pamela flirt with and seduce men of all ages, shapes, sizes, and ethnic backgrounds. From time to time, it would be another woman, even a couple. She was usually wearing a provocative outfit that would land her in jail if she ventured out in public.

In due time, Colt would watch them walk hand-in-hand back to her bedroom and listen to the negotiations through his earpiece and the electronic surveillance system.

“Are you sure you can't go any more than five-fifty for the hour, baby? I'd love to show you a good time, but the party you're asking for has a higher premium. It costs more. Can you do six-fifty?”

In this type of exchange, Pamela would hope to settle on $600 and give the customer whatever he or she wanted during their time together. Sometimes, the client – let's say a man for simplicity's sake – would do everything he could to fuck her senseless. He'd pound Pamela into what he believed was sexual oblivion and live out several fantasies in the process: control, power exchange, and domination, among many others.

Of course, Pamela was used to this treatment and didn't wear out easily. Her primary goal with every party was for the customer to leave fully satisfied but also for them to believe she was fully satisfied too. Pamela was selling a fantasy, after all. Yet she embellished none of her physical reactions. Other girls would fake multiple orgasms during parties, but Pamela refused to. It was a line she wouldn't cross.

And on rare occasions, Pamela received far more than she could handle. One day last year, she entertained a well-known NBA athlete – a perennial all-pro – for five hours and needed two full days to recover afterward. She'd never experienced sex so rough and demanding before.

Customers had different needs and desires. Pamela spent entire evenings hanging out and chilling with certain clients as some didn't want sex or anything erotic. They wanted to pretend to be boyfriend and girlfriend, or husband and wife, and simply talk. She'd curl up and snuggle in bed with a so-called trick, and they'd stream a movie or play video games. Maybe listen to Spotify or watch Monday Night Football. Pamela would act as a therapist as well, as these customers' lives were often lacking and all they wanted was someone to open up to and share their issues with.

She also considered herself an expert at giving marital advice.

Intimacy in some form or another was preferred, but most took it a step further and wanted sex. Sex was on the marquee, right? Clients would ask Pamela to give them a nuru massage in the parlor, for example, and take a shower to rinse off with her afterward. Others would spend thirty minutes (or more) dining on her pussy like it was their first meal in weeks. Pamela had sucked cock an infinite number of times and gotten fucked in every conceivable position known to man.

She'd seen it all. She'd done it all.

And always with a smile on her face.

Jake from Albuquerque stopped by about once every three months and used bondage restraints to gag and hogtie Pamela on the bed. Her job was to squirm, struggle, and cry (per his instructions) like she was a captive as he reclined back and masturbated for the rest of their allotted time. When in the mood, he'd remove his belt and dish out some corporal punishment.

But the man never touched Pamela.

The bondage was uncomfortable as hell, but Pamela was still at ease with Jake and looked forward to partying with him. That’s because they’d built a strong rapport over the years, and she trusted he’d never overstep his bounds. Jake never wanted sex, yet still paid her fetish rate (a much higher premium) regardless.

When Jake wanted to whip Pamela, she charged an additional $100. They always negotiated terms beforehand.

Yet he never hurt her.

And Colt would listen in, without fail, to every second his wife was being taken by someone else. The surveillance system's primary use was to safeguard the working girls from overaggressive and belligerent clients. It was rare, but Colt and/or Jim had to burst into a bedroom on multiple occasions throughout the years and put an immediate end to a customer's roughhouse, unwanted behavior. If necessary, they’d involve the authorities as well.

“Oh, a text from Jim.” Pamela gazed at her smartphone, bright and blingy in its pink rhinestone case, with one hand and continued to roast marshmallows with the other. “Lindsay got approved for her sheriff's card moments ago and they're off to Oakfall. Should be back late this afternoon or early this evening.”

“Kayleigh.”

Pamela's eyes narrowed as she offered a snarky grin to Colt's correction. To him, it was imperative that all the ladies use their working names amongst each other. In the past, those at odds would try to leverage any personal information they could against each other. Sometimes lives were forever wrecked when parents found out what their daughter was up to.

“Kayleigh,” Pamela yielded and raised an eyebrow. “What do you think of her?”

“If Kayleigh holds up, she's going to make us a ton of money.” Flipping an inner switch of his own, Colt’s tone deepened, and the raw, no-nonsense dictator from yesterday’s interview made his return. “In this industry, girls that young and wholesome are worth their weight in gold. You know what men who come here want, Pamela. But if the girl can't handle things, she'll be like the hundreds of others we've had over the years who flop and leave town after a day, a week, a month.” His palms stung from digging his fingernails into them. “I hope you know what you're doing by insisting we offer her a loan before her first party.” The restraint in his voice was palpable.

“I believe Lindsay – Kayleigh – can handle the stress and demands. She's young and doesn't have a lot of experience, but she loves sex, and I'm going to work with her.” Pamela undid the top button of Colt’s polo shirt and pressed a kiss to his throat. “Don’t worry, baby. I'll teach her all I know and have her well-prepared for almost anything by the end of the week.” Pamela took pride in being able to reel Colt’s alter ego back in, the take-no-prisoners workplace commando, to allow the warm gentleman she loved and admired to reemerge. “The money doesn't concern me either. She'll pay us back.”

“You don't see her the same way I do.” His tone had dropped several octaves. “Oh, I can tell. You can’t fool me. To me, Kayleigh is a sweet girl, a good girl, but an asset. A sought-after asset who'll do wonders for our business and its bottom line.”

And the type the bigger brothels will soon come after like a hungry pack of piranhas, Colt thought, and try to entice away with promises of more money. Once word of her spread, he feared recruiters from the houses near Reno and Carson City would attempt to woo Lindsay and poach her away. That bastard Robbins does it to us all the time.

“To you? Kayleigh is the girl you've spent your entire life dreaming about. Don't you dare deny it. I know you too well.” His hand lingered on her thigh. “Not going to leave me for her now, are you?”

There it was again. Pamela laughed, though it was a quick burst this time. Her lips, her eyes, her soul, they all smiled in unison. “I admit, I have a crush on Lindsay.”

“Kayleigh.”

Pamela growled and snagged another kiss. “You know, I've been attracted to other girls for as long as I can remember. But I've never been more attracted to another girl than Kayleigh. Ever. But mark my words, Colt McCarron – you have nothing to worry about.” She fluttered the tip of her thumb in languid circles along his mouth. “You are and always will be my number one.”

“Yet you've forever yearned for a number two.”

Was there any reason to sidestep or lie about it? Pamela had always been honest with Colt about her feelings. Working in this industry, their marriage wouldn't have lasted this long otherwise. “I love all the girls we have and most of the ones who've worked here in the past, too, and I've had sex with almost every single one of them. Remember Jessica? She and I didn't get along, but if a customer picked us for a threesome, we were best friends and lovers until the clock ran out.”

“What's your point?”

Pamela rolled her fingers into steely clamps and blew the strands of yellow, sunrise-gold hair across her forehead skyward. “I've had sex with other working ladies and female clients so many times, Colt, I've lost count. But never have I been with one where it's intimate. Something more than business, something special, something real … like what you and I have.”

“And you believe you can have this with Kayleigh too?” What we have doesn't come around all too often.

Pamela glanced down, her lips flat. “Maybe? I can tell she's interested in me.”

He put his finger on Pamela's chin and lifted it so he could gaze into her eyes. “Sweetheart, Kayleigh is a kid. She's only eighteen.”

“So was I when you first met me. And you were older than I am now.”

“Touché. You got me there. No defense for that one.” A lump grew in Colt’s throat, but he gulped it back. “I don't want to see you get hurt. I know how loving and kind you are, and I've supported your fantasy of having another special someone – a woman – in your life since the beginning. I've never told you no.” He reached out and smoothed his thumb between her eyebrows. “All I ask is you keep me in the loop and tell me everything that happens along the way. Can you do that?”

“Of course. I promise to.”

I have no doubt. Others may consider him insane given her occupation, but Colt viewed Pamela as the ideal, picture-perfect wife, a loyal wife whom he trusted. She’s never given me a reason not to.

“When are we finally going to start our family?” His words were gentle as he nipped at her ear. “You know I want to be a father and I'm not getting any younger. I wish you'd retire. I do.” Colt threaded his fingers at the base of her neck and luxuriated in the fresh, feminine scent. “Twelve years as a woman working in a brothel is an eternity. You could concentrate on obtaining your graduate degree while we work on starting a family. I'd have no problem if you fooled around with Kayleigh on the side either. Nicolette, Scarlett, Kenzie, I wouldn’t mind. You know I'm not the jealous type.”

Pamela pulled away and crossed her arms. “No. No kids, at least not now, and I'm not quitting the house.” She sensed his gaze, kind and patient, as she glanced back toward the house. “Not until our mortgage in Fairfax is paid off and we have more money in the bank.” Pamela's arms relaxed and a wave of sadness befell her as she faced him. “I don't want to be away from you for three weeks at a time either. I'd be so lonely.” She gnawed the inside of her cheek. “I'm afraid of being alone. You've worked these three-week cycles for years.”

His mouth tightened. “I keep telling you, we could move to Nevada and live here full-time. You’ll never be alone.” His fingertips caressed her forearm. “I wouldn’t let that happen. I'd work a standard shift and come home to you every night. No crazy hours, I promise. I'd take days off each week and we could spend them together.”

The problem with that was Pamela preferred to live close to her family in the Baltimore suburbs. Brothels were only legal in select parts of Nevada, so Colt couldn't relocate his business to Maryland. Otherwise, he would – in a heartbeat.

“Honey, you've been studying so hard to get into the medical field and one day become a Nurse Practitioner. And you've got three years to go before you earn your graduate degree. That's it. You could get a job at a doctor's office or hospital and do what you were born to do – help people. Make them feel better. That is and always will be your true calling in life.

“Here, I know you want to make your clients happy and genuinely care for them, and that makes you a superstar. But there comes a time to call it quits and move on to the next phase of your life, your career, our life. This …” Colt regarded her for several seconds, a fantasy image of breathtaking curves in skimpy attire, and grimaced, “… isn’t you.” He flashed a hand in front of her. “You … you’re better than this.”

“Better?” Pamela’s shoulders drooped, her face expressionless. Suddenly, this discussion became much deeper than she was comfortable with. “Am I better?”

“You know you are.” He reached for her bare foot with both hands and she groaned as he worked his magic. “I don't want you to be like Mariko. She's thirty-five and has been working as a courtesan, an escort, for seventeen years. And she has no game plan for the future.”

“I've never met someone outside the house like Mariko does on her time off.” A vein in her forehead throbbed and she shook her fist menacingly. “I am not an escort!”

“Never said you were.” Whoa, better back off. And I know you've never done any escorting. It was an unfortunate choice of words on Colt's part.

“But the demands here, they get on your nerves. Girls aren't supposed to last as long as you have. Twelve years … it's forever.” Colt paused and flexed his fingers. “I've never told you what to do. I've always supported you no matter what.” Hope flickered behind his eyes. “We have money. You know we do. You don't need to …”

His words trailed off. It wasn't in Colt's nature, as lenient and supportive as he was, to pressure Pamela into any decision. He wasn't the possessive type and had no issues with her being with others in the bedroom. This was a job and how she made a living. He understood. It was for him, too, like how he put his hands on Lindsay during the interview yesterday. It was necessary. Colt told her she was firm and sexy, among other things, but it was just business. He had zero attraction toward Lindsay.

Colt's problem was despite what Pamela would tell everyone, including him, she’d run her course working here. She was aching, both physically and emotionally, beyond exhausted, and on certain days it was clear to see.

But Pamela worried about money. She always had. Colt chalked those fears up to her modest upbringing. And she would never admit to suffering a burnout to him. This was his life's work. He was raised in the business. Without it, they would have never met and gotten married. Pamela believed she owed a lot to the sex industry.

This was all Pamela had ever known as far as working. She started out as a webcam model on her eighteenth birthday and transitioned to stripping for a few months while still attending high school. Following graduation, she left home for Vegas and applied at Happy Ending Ranch. A friend from the webcamming site suggested she try it.

Pamela had business ventures outside the house, too, but sex work was her livelihood. It always had been. She was proficient at it, and the money was plentiful and steady. Stepping away and taking a full-time job that paid, say, fifteen dollars an hour for slaving at a desk seemed like a colossus waste of time … and life.

Pamela believed continuing to make a solid income would provide a better future not only for her, but for Colt and their children as well, should they ever have children. Pamela was still undecided. So why not work in the brothel for as long as she could? Until decisions such as starting a family were made and set in stone?

“I'll retire in three years, I promise.”

Colt bit his tongue and glanced away. You’re not going to last three more years.

“Are you going to initiate Kayleigh once she returns from her day out with Jim?” Pamela’s knee bounced in place as she plucked at her throat. “You usually do with the new girls.”

“Think so, yeah. Need to see what she's got.” Hissing, he drummed four fingers on his thigh as Pamela’s shoulders again crumpled in response. “It's just business, honey.” Colt gripped her foot and resumed the massage. “I hate having sex with anyone but you.”

“Let me do it instead?” Pamela wrapped her arms around his torso and pressed her cheek into his broad chest. “I know Kayleigh won't have any objections or reservations if it's me. I'll do it in a way that she doesn't even realize it's an initiation.”

Colt often gave in to Pamela whenever she pleaded but held firm this time. “No. No way. You'll let your emotions, your attraction, get in the way. I need to see if Kayleigh has what it takes to succeed here. It must be me.”

She slumped back, her nose twisting. “Okay.”

“Get with Kayleigh later if you two have some free time and see what happens.” Colt realized that Pamela disapproved of him having sex with any of the hired help but didn’t feel like rehashing that topic again. I know, I know, you’re a working girl and it’s your job. It’s not mine. Still, the hypocrisy of her rationale was astounding. How can you, of all people, be so opposed to me being with another woman? “You know I won't object.”

She rubbed the back of her neck and winced in discomfort. Pamela’s body had taken a beating over the years, and some days were worse than others. Before the end of the year, she’d have to bite the bullet and go back to Dr. Pietz for a full checkup.

During her last visit, Dr. Pietz indicated certain areas of Pamela’s body – joints and muscles, and the arthritis in her neck and back that kept worsening – were more than in line with what a fifty-year-old would experience. The constant, unyielding stress she put herself through was doing irreparable damage to her body and would cause implications as she got older.

She already suffered from fibromyalgia and chronic fatigue. Shifting into lots of unique positions with a client or holding the same position for too long could be painful. Pamela often swam in the outdoor pool to combat these ailments, did yin yoga, and planned to purchase a spa membership during her next trip to Oakfall and spend eight to ten hours in the sauna and hydrotherapy pool every time she had the day off.

Even at her young age, Pamela took five prescription medications daily and had two others for pain as needed. If she wasn’t a sex worker, six of those seven prescriptions wouldn’t be necessary.

“Why did you have to act so damn strict and businesslike when you were dealing with Lin … Kayleigh yesterday?” Pamela leaned closer and furrowed her brow. “The poor girl was scared to death during the interview. I'm glad I was there to help offset you.”

“You know why I act that way. You know full well.” Colt glared at her without blinking. “These new girls need to know our rules and regulations, and I want their respect. If I act all buddy-buddy, they'll come in and think they own the place.” His demeanor softened as he stroked her neck. “You like that, honey? Feel good? They'll walk all over me and Jim. You too. Rip us apart.”

“But you're so not that way in reality. And yes, it feels good. Thank you. My neck needs it more than my foot.”

His touch, as usual, was therapeutic. Colt was well versed with Pamela’s everyday aches and pains and often treated her with kid gloves.

“You're a big teddy bear, Colt. Just like Beary Potter! You know I don't like that resting bitch face you put on with the new hires.”

He roared with laughter. “I have a resting bitch face?”

“It's driven girls away over the years. You know it has. Plus, Kayleigh isn’t the type to walk over anyone. She seems passive, very submissive.”

A single eyebrow rose. “Looks can be deceiving.”

“God, Colt. Lighten up.” Pamela was huffing and puffing but regained control of her emotions. “I will say one thing, though: once a girl establishes herself here, you treat them like gold. Solid gold. Scarlett and Nicolette were telling me on Sunday night how much they enjoy working for you. Scarlett even said she missed your looming presence while we were away in Bora Bora. At first, years ago, Scarlett didn't know what to think of you. She was apprehensive like Kayleigh is now.”

“My business model and methods have done us well over the years.” Colt pressed a bottled water to his mouth and took a long sip. “This isn't a popularity contest. I'm here to make money and provide for us.” He palmed her abdomen and spoke with caution, “For our children, too, whenever you ultimately decide to retire.”

Pamela’s eyes flashed. “When I put the lube away for good? Hang up the old high heels once and for all?”

“Yeah.” Three years, right? I’ll believe it when I see it.

“All I'm saying is you come across as too harsh sometimes. Do you know how nerve-racking it is for an eighteen-year-old to come in off the street and apply for a job like Kayleigh did yesterday? I do. I was once her. Kayleigh left her entire life behind and spent every last penny she had for an opportunity to earn a job with us.” Pamela traced her finger along the line of Colt’s jaw. “Explain the rules and protocols, but be gentler from now on? Please? For me? You'd still earn their respect. If a girl doesn't seem like the right fit, we don't have to hire her. That resting bitch face of yours is so damn unattractive.”

“Burn 'em to a crisp, my queen.” Colt tried to switch topics and motioned toward the marshmallows with his head. “Burn 'em good.”

“I know, down deep, you're not that way.” Pamela pecked him on the forehead with a kiss. “You're the sweetest, most generous, most loving guy in the world. I can't believe how good you are to me.”

“Well, I should be.” He couldn’t contain his grin. “You are my wife, you know. And I love you more than words could ever say.”

She bracketed his upper body, rubbing the arc of his shoulder blades with her thumbs. “I love you too, baby.”

“Being good to you is so easy.” Still smiling, he exhaled a deep, cleansing breath. “Easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

The doorbell to the brothel rang. In the backyard, the chime could still be heard because there was an outside speaker devoted to it.

“Oh, you know what time it is now, don't you?” Colt sprang to his feet as if he was a pogo stick on steroids. “First customer of the day is here! Time to make some money.”

“Hold your horses, cowboy.” Pamela grabbed a handful of Colt’s shirt and pulled him back down to her for a kiss saturated with affection. “Sometimes you frustrate me, but I always know you're looking out for our best interests, especially mine. I thank you for it. We'll talk more about me retiring later tonight or tomorrow.”

The couple ventured back inside and parted ways. Pamela hurried off to her bedroom and Colt answered the door.

“Mornin' there, my friend. Welcome to Happy Ending Ranch!” He did a visual inspection of the potential customer to make sure he was clean, decent, and not drunk off his ass. After checking off those mental boxes, he extended his hand for a formal greeting. “I'm Colt, a barkeep here. Might I see a photo ID?”

Elsewhere, Pamela rushed to change out of her bikini top and denim cutoffs and into something more appropriate. As she finished, a different buzzer reverberated all throughout the property.

The customer had requested a lineup.

Pamela slipped into her platform heels and made her way out to the corridor.

From the time the lineup buzzer blared, all the working girls on-site (unless they were in a party, it was their day off, or management excused them for another reason) had to be standing at the entrance to the kitchen within five minutes. If they were late, it was a $150 fine, and would be donated to charity.

As odd as this may sound, Colt had fined his wife for being late to lineups several times. He believed it was necessary to discipline Pamela like all the others and not show her any preferential treatment.

But she wouldn't be fined today. Pamela was first to the kitchen, followed by Scarlett, Kenzie, Sahara, Riley, Nicolette, and Aaliyah. The girls chatted amongst one another about miscellaneous things and waited around for a few moments before Colt gave the signal to follow him into the lap dance room at the far end of the bar.

The customer, an obvious first-timer, fidgeted as the ladies stood in a perfect line in front of him. One by one, they'd step forward and introduce themselves – “Hi, I'm Pamela!” or “I'm Scarlett. A pleasure to meet you!” – do a sexy swivel, and step back. Batting their eyelashes or doing any slight movement to divert attention while another girl had her opportunity was deemed “dirty hustling”, considered the ultimate no-no in any brothel, and would result in a heftier fine.

Maybe even termination.

“Which one would you like, Charlie?” Outgoing and gregarious, Colt's entire focus was on the customer. His lone objective? Sell, sell, sell. “So many beautiful women, so many beautiful choices. Why not double your pleasure and pick two? Any two you'd like. It's up to you. All these fine ladies enjoy threesomes and would blow your mind during one … among other things.

“If you'd like, you're more than welcome to receive a four-minute lap dance from any of the ladies too. The choice is up to you. We can turn some music on. The cost will be thirty dollars per dance, but strip club rules apply – no touching from your end. Hands must be at your sides.”

“No, no lap dance.” A sheen of sweat visible on his forehead, Charlie needed more time to decide. This was nothing new for newbie customers, so Colt allowed him to survey the goods for another sixty seconds. Happy Ending Ranch prided itself in offering a smorgasbord of beauty and today was no exception.

For starters, there were the two centerfold hotties: Pamela had the busty bikini girl vibe going while Scarlett was a walking wet dream from Porn Valley USA. Three years ago, Scarlett's boyfriend (now fiancé) demanded she take a job here to help satiate her sex addiction. He couldn’t handle her or her urges, or her ongoing infidelity. The move paid off and allowed them to progress toward their current engagement.

Or did this gentleman prefer brunettes instead? Sahara and Riley were petite spinners bursting with energy who’d bend, spread, and open wide for the right price, with the shared motto “rough sex is okay, disrespectful is not.”

Half black and half Indian, and all sex pot, Aaliyah had sweet caramel skin and the face of a cherub with flowing jet-black hair, wide almond eyes, and a thick-lipped mouth.

Kenzie was a steamy, exotic import from Puerto Rico while Nicolette, another raven hair, was a ten-year veteran of the sex scene and had worked at every brothel in the state. Kenzie’s body was sculpted, chiseled like stone from years of exercise, and Nicolette reminded one of a MILF who wasn’t getting enough at home.

“Well, who will it be, Charlie?” The ladies were dressed in either lingerie or revealing low-cut minidresses. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors were all throughout, meaning every luscious angle and curve could be inspected. “Who do you want to be with?”

“Man, I don't know! They're all perfect!” Charlie crossed and uncrossed his legs and struggled to adjust his collar. “Oh, my, it's hard to choose.” His fingers were laced taut, his knuckles white. “I guess … I guess … I pick the one in the red sequined dress! Pamela, isn't it?”

“Yes, Miss Pamela! A wise decision.” Son of a bitch! Colt had plans of enjoying a picnic lunch with his wife at one o’clock, but that wasn’t going to happen now, was it? Fuck! Regardless, he grinned and gave Charlie a congratulatory pat on the back.

Just business.

Pamela approached Charlie with wide brown eyes and an even wider smile that projected all the generosity in her heart. “Hi! How are you?” The other ladies smiled and excused themselves without a word as Pamela glided a hand over the swell of her breasts in a practiced flirtation. This woman was an expert at seducing others.

“Good. Umm … good.” Charlie endured a hard, obvious swallow. “How are you?”

“Good!” She stepped back and offered her hand, tiny and pristine. “I’m Pamela.”

“Yes! Yes, you are!”

Her body swayed. “Nice to meet you.”

“You’re Pamela.” He hesitated, but soon accepted her hand and did a wave with his other. “I’m Charlie, by the way.”

“Okay.” Finding his awkwardness incredibly cute, Pamela’s face shone brighter than the Nevada sun. “Would you like to go to the bar and enjoy a drink, Charlie? We can talk for a while and get to know each other. See what we have in common, you know?”

“Yeah … no,” came his breathless reply. “I mean, yeah, yeah … absolutely.” He coughed hard. “Lead the way.”

“There's no pressure, my friend, and no rush,” Colt said as he followed them out of the lap dance room. No doubt, this guy is a virgin. Colt had a radar for it, as did Pamela. No doubt, she knew too. “Pamela is the type of gal who will sit and talk your head off if you allow her. Sit down, relax, and talk as long as you'd like.”

“Perfect. I will.” Charlie’s body twitched, unable to take his eyes away from Pamela.

But if I sense you're not interested in spending any money here, I won't hesitate. I'll ask you to leave. And if push came to shove, Colt would force him to leave.

Once Charlie settled at the bar alongside Pamela, anxiety clawed at his throat. “Ahh, so … how are you?”

Pamela laughed at being asked the same question again. “I’m good! How are you?”

“I’m good.” He twisted his wristwatch. “I’m just, uhh, on vacation in Vegas for the week, and thought I’d, uhh, stop by.”

“Vacation? Where are you from? I don’t remember seeing you here before.”

“Michigan. Detroit, actually. Well, the Detroit area. About twenty miles north.” Charlie wrung his hands out and willed himself to continue. “This … it’s quite … it’s very new to me. I’ve never been to a brothel before.”

“Never? That’s awesome! I’m cool with that.” Pamela’s face was lit up like Sin City’s skyline at night, her voice as soft as a summer’s breeze. “I like the newcomers.” She placed her palm along his wrist and squeezed. “You have no reason to be nervous, baby.”

“Nervous? Me? Nervous?” His hip bumped the table. “I’m not nervous! No way!”

Pamela bared her pearly whites again. “Okay.”

Conceding, he covered his face with a forearm for a split second. “You’re just so pretty. It’s weird.”

“And you’re so sweet. Thank you. Compliments go a long way with me.” She placed her hand on the back of his neck and tried to knead away his tension. “So, you’ve never been to a brothel before? What made you choose Happy Ending Ranch?”

“I did a lot of research on the various brothels in Nevada and decided on this one. All I saw were five-star reviews. Been trying to build up the courage, uhh, to come here for the past several years, to be honest.”

“Well, we're glad you did, and promise to make it worth your while. I’ll see to that personally! Welcome to our little neck of the woods. I’m so happy you chose me out of the lineup. I feel honored.” Pamela was overflowing with warmth as she trailed her opposite hand along his side, slow and tender. “Thank you so much for coming here. Happy Ending Ranch may not be the biggest brothel, but we pride ourselves on being the best.”

For the next forty-five minutes, Colt acted as the bartender – not the owner/general manager and certainly not as Pamela's husband – as he puttered around behind the counter and did his best to act busy. He kept silent (unless Pamela or Charlie asked him something) and tried to make it seem like he wasn't there to begin with.

Yet he had to be.

The customer always had to be comfortable, but the safety of the working girls took priority over everything else. Therefore, Colt was supervising the discussion between Pamela and Charlie. He or Jim, or the actual bartenders who worked the later shifts did this for every introductory conversation between working girl and potential client. Those meetings always took place at the bar in plain, open sight.

Charlie came across as a decent guy, and Colt didn't believe he'd cause any trouble. He purchased a glass of Grey Goose for Pamela when most others refused to pay the house’s outlandish fee for alcoholic beverages.

Pamela asked Charlie to elaborate on his job back home, his family, his interests … all those typical things. She was attentive and showed interest in his every word. Pamela brought his hand to her exposed thigh, told him he could keep it there, and was touchy-feely herself too.

“You've been working here for twelve years, huh? That’s a long time. Tell me more about yourself.”

Colt kept a watchdog’s eye on Charlie's hand as it caressed Pamela's bare flesh.

She smiled for the man again, her soon-to-be trick, the same smile she’d given thousands of times since 2006. “Yeah, I've been at the brothel for quite a while.”

“I bet you have lots of admirers. Probably a whole list of ‘em who keep coming back for more.” Pamela shied away from Charlie’s praise as he added, “You are delicious.”

“Aww, thank you. That's so sweet. Umm, besides working, I don't know. I'm a homebody and prefer to chill by the pool or go to the beach.”

“Ahh, the beach. I'd love to go there one day. You live in Florida? What part?”

“Miami.” Only a handful of her customers were aware that Pamela lived in Baltimore. She always told everyone else she was from Florida to safeguard her privacy. “And you? What else do you do for fun?”

Charlie rocked back and forth on his bar stool, his body thrumming with energy for the first time in years. “Well, I like to travel to Vegas. I like to gamble. It's a nasty habit.”

Her eyes sparkled. “What's your card game of choice?”

“I've donated a lot of money to the blackjack table.” A laugh sprang from Pamela again as the soft-spoken, well-mannered customer added, “Unfortunately.”

“See, that's why I never gamble. I'm no good at it. All I ever play is the slot machines, but don't understand them at all. I just press buttons and hope for the best.”

When it was time, Pamela guided him by the hand to her bedroom. Flustered at first, Charlie’s apprehension and nervousness had floated away thanks to Pamela being so accommodating.

Colt inserted his Apple AirPods and activated the surveillance system.

“So, baby, what are you looking for today?”

Colt's chest strained at the thought of Pamela being with yet another man, but he reminded himself it was just business. Pamela was headstrong, and despite her deteriorating physical and mental health, it was her decision to continue working like this.

And it was his marital duty to support her.

Colt envisioned the scene within his mind: Pamela motioned for Charlie to relax on the bed and took a seat on his lap. She began rubbing the bulge in his trousers and asked what he was seeking.

“Anything I should know beforehand? I mean, like, fetishes or anything you’re into that’s different? Don’t be bashful, baby. Speak up, tell me what you want.”

Charlie pressed his knees together and fiddled with his shirtsleeve. “No, just, you know … I’m into you, I guess.”

“Okay.” She gave his cheek a kiss. “You’re so sweet.”

Pamela's prices varied on what the customer wanted. She often quoted on the high end to start but would haggle down to the $500 an hour minimum unless it was a specialty or fetish party. As the joint owner, Pamela hated turning any business away.

Her menu comprised the acts she was willing to perform. The list included dozens of lustful activities, including shower parties, handjob, blowjob, prostate massage, nuru massage, vaginal sex in various positions, domination, submission, costumes, toys, role-play, dirty talk, foot worship, drag shows, golden showers, ballbusting, and pegging to name a few. The parties Pamela didn't care for (such as cowgirl sex and pegging) would come at a steep premium, and she'd refuse to negotiate down from the initial quote. Pamela would also mention the idea of a two-girl party again and note Scarlett or Nicolette would be an outstanding choice.

Pamela was going to exclusively recommend Kayleigh (Lindsay) for threesomes once she returned from her day out. She couldn’t wait to sink her mitts into her.

But Pamela would only rattle off those options if the customer asked what she offered because nine times out of ten they came in wanting the Girlfriend Experience (GFE). For the right price, Pamela would kiss you, cuddle with you, allow you to talk about your problems, and laugh at your jokes. Such closeness would include sex if desired. She'd be at your beck and call until the clock ran out and would try almost anything within reason.

No surprise here: Charlie wanted a GFE. He got choked up and burst into tears after admitting to being a thirty-six-year-old virgin.

“Hey, honey. There's nothing wrong with that,” Pamela said in her sweetest, most affectionate tone. “No shame in it either. Lots of guys come here to lose their virginity.” Her hand kneaded his lower spine. “You're not alone, Charlie. Settle down and relax, baby, and I'll take care of you. Okay?” She pursed her lips and let out a sympathetic murmur. “I'm going to make you happy today.”

“Okay.” Charlie hid his face and wiped his eyes. He'd been downright embarrassed for the past decade about still being a virgin at his age. Charlie didn’t understand why women avoided him at all costs. No matter where he went – Detroit, Vegas, elsewhere – the story was always the same.

And admitting the sad truth to Pamela was humiliating.

Out front, Colt's heart fluttered and he wrung out his hands. Virgins, widowers, divorcés, and those with shattered and/or lonely hearts, he’d dealt with them all over the years. Hearing their stories was never easy.

“Oh, there, there, baby,” Pamela extended an arm and squeezed Charlie tighter. “It's okay. Please don't cry. I don’t want you to cry. No one is going to judge you here. You’re in my hands now; you’re safe with me. You and I are gonna have a kick-ass time.”

Charlie held his finger over his eye, hung his head for a few seconds, and sniffed before glancing back up. “How much would three hours cost? I want to enjoy myself and not rush, not look at the clock.”

“I charge seven hundred an hour, so the price would be twenty-one hundred for three. But I'll tell you what, baby. You're a sweet guy and I like you. I like you a lot.” Pamela rested her forehead against his and held still, binding him with a flirtatious gaze. “Most of all, I'd love to be your first time.” Their mouths were inches apart, sharing the same breathing space. “How does eighteen hundred sound? Six hundred an hour?” She pulled back and offered him a look so tender that it brought an ache to his chest. “It's a good price, a good discount, but I can't go any lower.” Pamela’s lower lip dropped into a sexy pout. “I'll be in hot water with my boss if I do.”

“Deal.”

Colt pressed one earpiece further in and couldn't believe what he’d heard. She didn’t negotiate? Pamela routinely quoted clients $700 per hour to start but must've had a soft spot for this guy. Then again, she always did for virgins. Pamela was a virgin specialist and had popped hundreds of cherries (including those of some women) in her career. She treated virgins extra-special, realizing she’d be an integral part of their life story forever.

And they were easy sessions, too, at least physically. Virgins rarely demanded much, often lying motionless in a dazed stupor and allowing the courtesan to control every aspect of the encounter.

It also surprised Colt that Pamela didn't offer Charlie the house minimum ($500 an hour, $1,500 for three) but figured she must've saved the extra $300 for wiggle room. Sometimes customers wanted to pinch every penny they could, and the negotiations would fall apart.

“Awesome.”

Colt’s head recoiled when the familiar, wet sound of two mouths kissing filled his earbuds. His heart panged and his hands involuntarily twisted into fists.

“For a virgin, you're quite the kisser, baby.”

“That was … the first time a woman ever kissed … me.”

“Oh, you’ll receive plenty of kisses from me today. Trust me, baby.”

Pamela gave him another open-mouthed exchange, and Colt's eyes narrowed. Wait. What the hell, man? He exhaled a purifying breath and composed himself. It’s just business. Colt reminded himself that Pamela was doing her job and not kissing Charlie with any genuine interest. Chill out. She’ll be in your arms later.

Having never experienced such an intensely negative reaction like this when Pamela was with a client, Colt tapped his foot several times. What was that?

He shrugged it off.

“Can you please pull down your pants?”

“Uhh, sure. Already? I haven't even paid yet.”

“I need to check your penis to make sure there are no signs of infection.” Pamela chirped out a giggle. “It's the dreaded dick check! All the girls here are one hundred percent clean, and we like our clients to be that way too. The DC is a mandatory safety check. Makes things safer for both you and me. Aww, there you go, baby. I like your boxers. What brand are those?”

“Mack Weldon.”

“Give me another kiss, sweetie.” Silence reigned supreme for the next several seconds, but Colt envisioned what was happening. Pamela was either on her knees or crouching in front of Charlie with latex gloves on and shining her trusty halogen flashlight along the length of his penis and testicles. Charlie, he imagined, was glancing up at the ceiling, tense as could be.

Pamela had put up major protests about having to do this with clients in the past, but Colt insisted it be part of the safety protocol. “There are other ways to perform a dick check without making the customer all awkward,” she'd complain. “I can do one in ways they wouldn't even realize it's being done. If you're a virgin, for example, would you want the first time you show your dick to a woman to be with her shining a flashlight at it and looking for an infection?”

“We're not changing the house policy, Pamela,” Colt would tell her. “Period. End of discussion.”

When Charlie let out an excited growl, Pamela wrapped his cock up in a wet wipe soaked with rubbing alcohol and offered a few brisk hand strokes.

She's sliding its tip along her cleavage, too, Colt thought. Pamela had plenty of tricks up her sleeve to make the process less stressful. It was essential that everything be positive, especially for older virgins like Charlie.

“All good, baby. Put your pants back on. Let's go out and visit with the bartender and he’ll handle all the financial details. You can take a quick shower afterward and I'll get my room ready for our date.” She pressed yet another kiss beside his ear and whispered, “I'm going to make you feel like a million bucks today.”

“Okay.” His heart hammered with a frantic beat. “I … like the sound of that.”

“Will you be paying with cash or credit?”

“Credit.”

“There's a five percent surcharge for credit. So, the total will be eighteen hundred and ninety dollars. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course. It's no problem.”

“If you want, Colt will run and snag us takeout from Tesoro’s Restaurant and Lounge on Third Street. It's Italian and delicious. There's a menu at the bar. You can order whatever you like. You'll have to pay for it, though that can be done after the party. I'd love to snuggle in bed and enjoy lunch with you. Hmmmmm, that would be so romantic.”

Colt shoved out from behind the bar in a sudden, furious rage, quite uncharacteristic for him, and raked his fingers through his hair as he paced in the lobby.

“Would it be okay if I spoon-fed you?”

Pamela grinned with all her teeth. “Of course. You can do whatever you want, Charlie.” She seized his lips in the next heartbeat. “I’m game for anything today.”

“Oh, that’s excellent, sweetheart, because there are plenty of things I want to do to you. And you to me. But for starters, we’ll pretend it’s an actual date, so Colt can go fetch us lunch.”

(End of Chapter Three - to be continued)