Dead Ends

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My job is simple: I'm a masseuse (code word for prostitute).

It used to be fun, too, but, after a while--well, let's just say the thrill is gone.

I mean, how many cocks can a girl suck or fuck until the novelty's worn off? (In my case, I reckon the number at about 3,000.)

So, I don't suck or fuck anymore. I've come up with an alternative that's quicker and more lucrative.

I operate a "massage" business. Only my massages don't include the head, the neck, the shoulders, the back, the arms, the chest, the abs, the ass, the thighs, the calves, the hands, or the feet. What's left? The only parts that count. The manly parts. The cock and balls. That's what men really want to be "massaged," after all, anyway. Cut to the chase, I say (but not, ordinarily, in front of my clients; since the Lorena Bobbitt caper, naked men are understandably a little wary of the word "cut" when it's used in the proximity of their genitals.)

I've become something of an expert in "helping" men to achieve orgasm or, actually, ejaculation (because that's what men mean by "orgasm"; a climax occurs only when ejaculation does, and a climax doesn't happen until ejaculation occurs).

I tell them right up front, "Your session lasts just as long as it takes for me to make you cum." I charge $20 a head (pun intended), and I can get the typical macho man off in three minutes, so, as you might imagine, I make good money splattering my parlor with their semen.

Most men cum pretty quickly for a good-looking piece of shemale ass like me. Since I'm a girl with something "extra," I also know, more than most women, how to bring a guy quickly to the point of no return. Hell, I've practiced on myself since I was old enough to know what a hard-on, so there'd be something wrong with me if I didn't know the basics by now.

I have my clients sit in a waiting room, just as if they were at a doctor's or a dentist's office, where they can chat up my lipstick lesbian receptionist, Sheila Simpson.