Proud Owners

by maryjane

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Fa/Fa, Ma/Ma, Consensual, NonConsensual, BiSexual, Incest, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Cream Pie, Prostitution, .

Desc: Sex Story: A 'professional escort' prepares for the day when she might have to answer to the long arm of the law.

"You're a cop? Son of a bitch! Garfield, you're a no good cock-sucking mother-fucking cop? You limp dick asshole-licking son of a bitch! You waste three hours of my time fucking every hole that I've got and now you tell me you're a fucking cop here to arrest me? Bring that fucking prick over here and I'll bite the filthy thing off, you bastard! Your mother swims after troop ships, you piece of shit. Get in the bathtub and I'll piss your mouth, you useless excuse for a human being."

Pretty good, huh? Sounds like I'm really pissed off, doesn't it? But deep down I'm smiling, because I know that my brother is in the next room, getting all of the cop's fucking on six different cameras, from six different angles, and it'll cost that detective his job if he so much as puts handcuffs on me.

I knew that this would happen someday, and I was ready for it. Trouble was, there was no way that I was going to be able to keep the money he paid me, and I handed it back to him reluctantly. Shit, shit, shit!

Maybe I should go into some of the earlier details first.

I'm not bad on the eyes. Long, dark brown hair, eyes the same color. Five foot four, only 110 pounds, fair of face, soft of voice. All my weight was in my tits, which was my basic attraction to boys and men, with the occasional woman thrown into the mix.

My ass, also not bad, snuggled comfortably on the seat cushion in front of my keyboard. Clad only in bra and panties, my long, thin fingers rested upon a-s-d-f and j-k-l-;. The nails were gaudy, whorish red, shaped to deliver painful rakes down the back of any man who might anger me. Or who might prefer it.

The first words of this story were already in my head: I'm a whore. I typed those words without needing to be looking at the keyboard. Then I stopped, looked at them, and abruptly deleted them. I am not a whore, I do not fuck anything with a cock. I do not walk the streets or hang around hotel bars. I spread my legs and ass cheeks and open my mouth to cocks only for men – and oh yes, that occasional woman I just mentioned – who come to me by prior agreement and who have been highly recommended by prior clients. I am not a call girl because I never go to any man's hotel room but do my entertaining for the most part only in my own apartment. You can't call me arm candy because I rarely go to dinner with a client before or after his pipes have been cleaned. OK, sometimes both before and after his pipes are drained.

Realistically, the only logical word I can think of is prostitute, but unfortunately that word has no cachet, no zip, no titillating lilt. But I am who I am – no religious connotation intended.

I'll settle for my second choice: professional escort.

No man has ever made me cum, never brought me to screaming orgasm save one, my beloved kid brother, with whom I live and love.

I woke up to the warmth of his body pressed against my back, his fully engorged cock resting against the crack of my ass. His left arm was over my body, the fingers caressing my left nipple. Soft lips kissed the back of my neck while the warm carbon dioxide of his exhale spread over my back. I reached behind me. The faint wetness of his pre-cum told me all that I needed to know.

"Does my beautiful baby brother need some hot loving this morning?"

The response was for him to slide his right hand under me and use two fingers to diddle my clit, simply to confirm that I needed him as much as he needed me.

The baby brother I speak of is Ric, then just twenty-three, with whom I lived at the time. Me, I'm maryjane, small 'm', barely close to twenty-four. Yes, we were called Irish Twins. I hate that derogatory insult, yet it is in such common usage that I no longer go crazy when I hear it. Those people who use it can go fuck themselves. Professionally, I don't use my real name. Instead, I present myself to the world of sex and friends as Muffin November, or just Muffie.

I pulled free of Ric's grasp and slid my head under the blanket, hiding from the cool news of the late fall weather drifting in through the open sixth-floor apartment windows. My mouth found his circumcised crown and my bright red lips wrapped around it. Then I closed my eyes and tried to fall back asleep. Ric did likewise. This was not unusual for us. We were never in a hurry. Sometimes I gave up the game and began to suck his lovely man thing. Other times, he blinks first and starts to fuck my face, albeit gently. In either event, our first contact of the morning always concludes with my mouth full of baby brother's creamy ejaculate, soothing my throat with its calming balm, to be then immediately returned by mouth to Ric, whence we shared his first cum of the day as our breakfast appetizer.

I guess that a lot of girls love their younger brothers, many of them even sexually, yet I doubt that very many children grew up through the hell of their lives as did Ric and I. Mom and Dad were two people who, as the expression goes, gave the description 'white trash' a bad name. They were both lazy drunkards and we were both embarrassed to have one of them show up at our school. Dad had been in and out of prison and was totally covered with tattoos. The only way to be sure that he had white skin was that his cock had not been inked. Yes, I saw him naked quite often, beginning with the last time he left prison. I was aware that Ric had also done time, specifically six months of County time for an assault in some bar. Though he didn't talk very much about it, I gathered that he had become some guy's girlfriend in jail and he nailed a couple of guys to be his girlfriends.

Mom was pissed off at Dad for his last crime and refused to let him fuck her. He came into my bed and forced his cock into my mouth. The next night he broke my cherry and from then on Mom became just the family cook and cleaning woman while I became the 'woman' of the house.

Not for long though. One night Dad and Mom held up a busy local restaurant-bar for its weekend receipts. When the police came to arrest them, Dad tried to shoot it out with them. Both my parents were killed in the fire fight. The proceeds of the robbery were never recovered.

Wink, wink. That's how Ric and I could afford the down payment to move to a nicer building.

But back to Ric waking me up. I held out longer than he, and he began the delicious project of fucking my face. But slowly, gently. Soon my desire for the taste of his sperm captured me, and my hand crept under his cock, squeezing his nuts. He exploded instantly, filling my mouth with the ever-tasty gift of man to woman.

I've never lost a drop. Exception: that first night with Dad, when I had no idea that I was supposed to swallow. Actually I threw up, and got slapped around a bit for that. Maybe that's why the following night the bastard went straight for my pussy. And a week later, my asshole. Ugh!! Good riddance, Daddy Dearest.

Anyway, with my mouth full, my head came out from under the blanket and I kissed baby brother. My lips parted as did his and I snowballed some of his cum into his mouth. Then our tongues began that wonderful duel, each trying to get cum from the other, until all of it was down both gullets.

"Ready to fuck now, Muffie?"

"Just a quickie, bro. And make sure you clean out my pussy; I've got a trick due in an hour and a half. He doesn't like sloppy seconds."

"Which one is this, Sis?"

"Number fifteen."

"Oh, Senator Buchanan?"

I nodded.

OK, let's talk about the meaning of number fifteen, and all the other numbers from one to one hundred sixty-three. That doesn't mean that I have so many regulars to pay for my 'favors'. Most of the hundred sixty-three were just business men in town for a meeting or a conference. I service them once and never see or hear from them ever again. As the story outline suggested, I make my money spreading my legs – and other things. I call myself an escort – the word I finally decided upon - because I work only on referrals and only by appointment. And most of my appointments are with men who would not like any publicity about their sexual dalliances with someone like me. Oh sure, a lot of them fuck their secretaries and other office employees, but that's routine. They get caught, they apologize to the wife, promise not to do it again and that's the end of it. But the bulk of my clientele are in the public eye, upper echelon executives or politicians and the like, would be crushed if it became known that they paid good money to a full time whore with a name like Muffie.

So that's why just about every working girl keeps a 'book', a diary of each guy she fucks, when, where, (my apartment almost always) how much, what he likes to do in bed, his sexual secrets and any pillow talk he happens to spill. I also have my apartment rigged with several cameras to record what we do. Imagine what a politician would feel like to have the rag magazines printing pictures of him with his tongue in my ass.

The book and videos serve a dual purpose. One is for a – few and far between – situation where I need some sort of favor and the gentleman in not inclined to be cooperative. A reminder about photographic evidence is usually enough to move his ass. The other, much more important, is for the case when I might be arrested and need to be able to offer something more than a blow job in order to walk away without jail time. Sure, it'll ruin a lot of men, but fuck 'em; I have to look out for number one – ME!

.... There is more of this story ...

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