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!

But what's with the numbers? Study a little cryptography. The Senator is number fifteen. The codes are for instance 123/4/5, meaning page 123, line 4, word 5 in a certain book. That for instance will be the client's first name. That follows all the way through. The trick is to use a different book for each name, such as a series of monthly magazines, using them in order, so that no one zine shows too much wear. The public library has lots of reference magazines like that. So if the police find my book, the hard copy, it will be virtually impossible for them to decode it. I also keep another hard copy outside the apartment. Trust me, they'll never find it. And the important ones I also keep in my brain.

The videos are hidden in the Cloud. A little more difficult to hide, but using different i-phones through different open-access coffee shops, it can be done. It costs a little money, but it's worth it. I keep no hard copy of the videos of the men fucking me. If I'm feeling horny, I can find plenty of raw fucking by well known porn stars on my home computer for jilling purposes. Or I can always track down my brother for the real thing.


But the Senator was not my first paying customer, as you can tell by his number. My career on my back, financial career that is, began with the tall, handsome and courtly Reverend Washington. I'm using the names of past presidents in place of the clients' real last names, for obvious reasons – I don't want you to be able to dime me out.

My father, for all his evil and stupidity, had enough sense to buy burial insurance for him and mom. Otherwise, for all that Ric and I cared, the police could have left them in the nearest Dumpster. The nearest church, a huge place which we never attended, was run by Reverend Washington. He agreed to officiate. As Ric and I sat with him, prior to the formalities, we poured out all of our parents' evils, and I could see his mind churning, trying to formulate a decent eulogy.

More importantly for my future, I could also see him staring at my bust and trying to formulate words to let me know that he wanted to fuck me but that he didn't want to start trouble with Ric. The Reverend finally came up with the thought that we wouldn't have to pay his fee in cash, 'if you know what I mean'. Ric's mind was ahead of mine and they started to discuss amounts. When the Rev used the word 'anal', Ric immediately said that the price would be double. And the deal was done.

After the burial, when we went back to our apartment, the Rev wrinkled up his nose. Back then, when Ric and I still shared a single bedroom, I figured that Reverend Washington would want some privacy and so I asked Ric to go out for a drink or something.


Even before we heard the click of the lock as Ric left us, Washington had his hands under my sweater, pulling it up around my neck. Yes, I did attend my parents' funeral wearing a sweater; I simply didn't own any 'decent' clothing. He yanked my bra cups up, over my tits, leaving them bare, my nips harderning. His head went down to suckle on my right mammary while his hand played with the left one, alternately pinching and caressing. My hands held his mouth tight to my chest. I've loved the sensation of lips on my boobs from the first time that Ric had fucked me.

I could feel the Reverend W. fumbling with his belt and then heard the zip as he opened his fly. At the same time, I unzipped my own slacks and let them drop to the floor. He stepped out of his shoes and let his slacks follow mine. I was down to my sweater and bra around my neck and a 'fuck me' thong covering my snatch. I had not cared about my parents enough to give them the dignity of wearing real panties.

His hand went behind the rear 'belt' of my thong. Two of his fingers slid inside my wetness; his thumb pressed up against that perfect circle nestled between my ass cheeks.

And then he shoved it hard, right up into my colon, knuckle deep.

"No, Reverend. Please. I hate that."

"Listen, Muffin, if that's what you want to call yourself. Would you like me to tell the police where your parents left the holdup money for you to find?"

I kept my mouth shut, surprised not only that he knew where Dad had stashed it but also that he had not grabbed it before Ric and I had retrieved those funds. He took my silence as consent, which you might call it, but it was really more like resignation. He pulled down my thong and then pushed me onto my knees and face.

"Spread those cheeks, young lady."

As I mentioned earlier, my ass was not cherry. Dad had popped it soon after his last release from prison, and he used it at least twice a week until his – timely – demise. But I didn't enjoy it, even though it was available if the price was right. Washingon shoved first one then two fingers up into the darkness, twisting them, reaming me out. He apparently did not carry any lubrication with him. Dad had never bothered with that nicety either.

His monstrous cock – they all feel monstrous in my ass – plowed into me. My scream began immediately, but he shoved my face into the pillow to muffle the sound. With every thrust I screamed again, but the noises were always drowned out by the pillow.

Many men, as you may know by now, enjoy fucking a woman up the ass because it gives them the feeling of power over her. Many more favor the practice because the chute is so tight that is grips his cock powerfully, making him shoot off his cum without too much delay. Reverend Washington was probably a bit of both. Kneeling behind me, he squeezed my tits roughly, pinching them, abusing them. But the tightness also caused him to blast his cum into me in a very few thrusts.

With his balls newly empty, he was as weak as a kitten. I had no trouble pushing up against him. His cock popped out of me as he rolled onto his back. My smug internal smile didn't last very long, though, as he grabbed my head and pulled my face down onto his shrinking member for a cleaning.

Ugh! I swore that one day I would get even with that prick who was holding himself out as a religious leader.


"Muffin, you won't be able to make real money in this place. A man who is willing and able to pay your prices wants to be in an upscale apartment or hotel. You've got to move. And I can recommend you to any number of discreet men. All I ask is a referral fee that I can take out in trade."

Aah, the good Reverend wants to pimp me out and all he wants is to fuck my ass. I can handle that – until I get even.

And so it was. He became number one in my book. Although Ric and I hadn't yet set up our cameras to record the work I did that day, we did get plenty of footage of the Rev in my ass on future visits to our new place.


I was wearing a negligee belted at the waist. The top hung open slightly, allowing the Senator to see cleavage with the least bit of effort. Underneath I wore tanned skin, with but the teeniest bit of bikini white. After all, I use my body to make money, and there's no sense in showing my snatch for free at the pool or beach. And anyway, the Senator was an old client and there was no need for me to bother with a strip-tease to seduce him.

Looking through the peep-hole to be sure that he was alone – I don't mind threesomes but I like them arranged in advance – I threw open the door and stepped back, reveling as his eyes undressed me once again. He walked in and we touched cheeks.

"Coffee, Senator?"

"No thanks, Muffin. My time is limited today."

"Oh, are you off to Washington to run the country?"

He sighed. "Muffin dear, how many times do I have to tell you? I'm a State Senator, not a U.S Senator."

"Oh Senator, I keep forgetting."

Oh Senator, you are so fucking stupid, I thought. Can't you understand that I probably know more about civics and government than you? I only make myself act like a dumb blonde so that you'll give me some important pillow talk because you don't think that I can really understand it. When you tell me who's fucking whom and I give you a stupid look, I'm really banking that information in the back of my head for future use. When you tell me about fucking your secretary, I keep it in mind in case I ever have to make a call to your wife.

He reached for my negligee and slid his hands inside, fondling my breasts. I let it go until one hand started to move down my stomach.

"Not yet, dear."

He blushed and reached into his jacket pocket. Out came an envelope, from which emerged a stack of one hundred dollar bills. He counted them out on a table, laying each just off center of the prior bill, cascading them the way a casino dealer counts bills aloud before exchanging them for chips. I didn't bother to follow the count. He knew better than to try to cheat me. Even dumb blondes aren't that dumb.

I remembered, since the Senator was a regular, that his preference was to fuck me doggy style and then to shove his slimy cock into my mouth for a cleaning. I knew that he was married to an airhead who believed that all fucking had to be missionary style and who would not know what to do with a cock in her mouth. He had no compunctions about mentioning paying bribes and receiving them.

Excusing myself for a moment, I stepped into Ric's room to make sure that he had turned on the video recorder. He was sitting naked on his bed, his cock in his hand and his eyes on the monitor – four screens at once, just like a convenience store attached to a gas station.

"Save that cock for me, Ric. It won't take long today."


Business was good. Reverend Washington's first referral was Mr. Adams, the treasurer of his organization. The two of them, if not more, were milking the organization for personal expenses and Adams was the bag-man. Adams referred his son, Adams Jr., who like his father preferred the straight missionary position. I guess that sort of made sense. Junior referred his wife's brother, Tommy Jefferson. Tommy liked to fuck my pussy but when he got close to an orgasm, he pulled out, shoved his cock between my tits and squirted his thick juice all over my chest and face.

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